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ONCE OR TWICE IT ENDEAVORED TO LEAP UP THE PARAPET. 
The Last Days of PomPeit. Frontispiece {Page 355) 



THE LAST DAYS 
OF POMPEII 


By 

Sir EDWARD BULWER LYTTON, Ban. 


A COMPLETE EDITION. WITH NOTES 



GROSSET & DUNLAP 

Publishers • . • • . New York 


Made in the United States of America 











‘ I 


/ 




\ 


9 


\ 


-• ^ 

ii 



PREFACE 


TO 

THE EDITION OF 1834. 


On visiting those disinterred remains of an ancient City, 
which, more perhaps than either the delicious breeze or the cloud' 
less sun, the violet valleys and orange-groves of the South, attract 
the traveller to the neighborhood of Naples ; on viewing, slili 
fresh and vivid, the houses, the streets, the temples, the theat'-es 
of a place existing in the haughtiest age of the Roman empire 
it was not unnatural, perhaps, that a writer who had before 
labored, however unworthily, in the art to revive and to create, 
should feel a Keen desire to people once more those deserted 
streets, tc repair those graceful ruins, to reanimate the bones 
which were yet spared to his survey ; to traverse the gulf of 
eighteen centuries, and to wake to a second existence — the City 
of ±e Dead ! 

And the reader will easily imagine how sensibly this desire 
grew upon one whose task was undertaken in the immediate 
neighborhood of Pompeii — the sea that once bore her commerce, 
and received her fugitives, at his feet — and the fatal mountain 
of Vesuvius, still breathing forth smoke and fire, constantly 
before his eyes ! * 

I was aware from the first, however., of the great difficulties 
with which I had to contend. To paint the manners, and ex- 
hibit the life of the Middle Ages, required the hand of a marter 
genius ; yet, perhaps, that task was slight and easy in compar- 
ison with the attempt to portray a far earlier and more unfamiliar 
period. With the men and customs of the feudal time we have 
a natural sympathy and bond of alliance ; those men were our 
own ancestors — from those customs we received our own — the 
creed of our chivalric fathers is still ours — their tombs yet con- 
secrate our churches — ^the ruins of their castles yet frown over 
* Nearly the whole of this work was written at Naples last winteir 

(1832-3)- 


6 


PREFACE. 


our valleys. We trace in their struggles for liberty and for jus* 
tice our present institutions ; and in the elements of their social 
state we behold the origin of our own. 

But with the classical age v/e have no household and familiar 
associations. The creed of that departed religion, the customs 
of that past civilization, present little that is sacred or attractive 
to our northern imaginations ; they are rendered yet more trite 
to us by the scholastic pedantries which first acquainted us with 
their nature, and are linked with the recollection of studies which 
were imposed as a labor, and not cultivated as a delight. 

Yet the enterprise, though arduous, seemed to me worth at- 
tempting; and in the time and the scene I have chosen, much 
may be found to arouse the curiosity of the reader, and enlist 
his interest in the descriptions of the author. It was the first 
century of our religion ; it was the most civilized period of Rome ; 
the conduct of the story lies amidst places whose relics we yet 
trace ; the catastrophe is among the most awful which the trage- 
dies of Ancient History present to our survey. 

From the ample materials before me, my endeavor has been 
to select those which would be most attractive to a modem 
reader ; — the customs and superstitions least unfamiliar to him 
— the shadows that, when reanimated, would present to him 
such images as, while they represented the past, might be least 
uninteresting to the speculations of the present. It did, indeed, 
require a greater self-control than the reader may at first imagine, 
to reject much that was most inviting in itself ; but which, while 
it might have added attraction to parts of the work, would have 
been injurious to the symmetry of the whole. Thus, for instance, 
the date of my story is that of the short reign of Titus, when 
Rome was at its proudest and most gigantic eminence of luxury 
and power. It was, therefore, a most inviting temptation to the 
Author to conduct the characters of his tale, during the progress 
of its incidents, from Pompeii to Rome. What could afford 
such materials for description, or such field for the vanity of dis- 
play, as that gorgeous city of the world, whose grandeur could 
lend so bright an inspiration to fancy — so favorable and so sol 
emn a dignity to research } But, in choosing for my subject — 
my catastrophe, the Destruction of Pompeii, it required but little 
insight into the higher principles of art to perceive that to Pom- 
peii the story should be rigidly confined. 

Placed in contrast with the mighty pomp of Rome, the luxru 
ries and gaud of the vivid Campanian city would have sunk into 
insignificance. Her awful fate would have seemed but a petty 
and isolated tvreck in the vast seas of the imperial sway ; and 
ffie auxiliarv I should have summoned to the interest of my 


PREFACE, 


f 

Story, would only have destroyed and overpowered the cause it, 
was invoked to support. I was therefore compelled to relin- 
quish an episodical excursion so alluring in itself, and, confining 
my story strictly to Pompeii, to leave to others the honor of 
delineating the hollow but majestic civilization of Rome. 

The city, whose fate supplied me with so superb and awful a 
catastrophe, supplied easily, from the first survey of its remains, 
the characters most suited to the subject and the scene : the 
half-Grecian colony of Hercules, mingling with the manners of 
Italy so much of the customs of Hellas, suggested of itself the 
characters of Glaucus and lone. The worship of Isis, its ex- 
istent fane, with its false oracles unveiled — the trade of Pompeii 
with Alexandria — the associations of the Sarnus with the Nile, 
— called forth the Egyptian Arbaces, the base Calenus, and the 
fervent Apaecides. The early struggles of Christianity with the 
heathen superstition suggested the creation of Olinthus : and 
the burnt fields of Campania, long celebrated for the spells of 
the sorceress, naturally produced the Saga of Vesuvius. For 
the existence of the Blind Girl, I am indebted to a casual con- 
versation with a gentleman, well known amongst the English at 
Naples for his general knowledge of the many paths of life. 
Speaking of the utter darkness which accompanied the first 
recorded eruption of Vesuvius, and the additional obstacle it 
presented to the escape of the inhabitants, he observed that the 
blind would be the most favored in such a moment, and find the 
easiest deliverance. In this remark originated the creation of 
Nydia. 

The characters, therefore, are the natural offspring of the 
scene and time. The incidents of the tale are equally consonan^ 
perhaps, to the then existing society ; for it is not only the ord> 
nary habits of life, the feasts and the forum, the baths and the 
amphitheatre, the commonplace routine of the classic luxury, 
which we recall the past to behold ;^qually important, and 
more deeply interesting, are the passions, the crimes, the mis- 
fortunes, and reverses that might have chanced to the shades 
we thus summon to life ! We understand any epoch of the 
world but ill if we do not examine its romance. There is as 
much truth in the poetry of life as in its prose. 

As the greatest difficulty in treating of an unfamiliar and dis- 
tant period is to make the characters introduced “live and 
move ” before the eye of the reader, so such should doubtless 
be the first object of a work of the present description ; and all 
attempts at the display of learning should be considered but as 
meaiis subservient to this, the main requisite of fiction. The 
first art of the Poet (tne creator) is to breathe the breath of life 


s 


PREFACE. 


into his creatures — ^the next is to make tne-r words and actions 
appropriate to the era in which they are to speak and act. This 
last art is, perhaps, the better effected by not bringi the art 
itself constantly before the reader — by not crowding the page 
with quotations, and the margin with notes. The intuitive 
spirit which infuses antiquity into ancient images, is, perhaps, 
the true learning which a work of this nature requires ; without 
it, pedantry is offensive — with it, useless. No man who is 
thoroughly aware of what Prose Fiction has now become — of 
its dignity, of its influence, of the manner It which it has grad- 
ually absorbed all similar departments of literature, of its power 
in teaching as well as amusing — can so far forget its connection 
with history, with Philosophy, with Politics — its utter harmony 
with Poetry and obedience to Truth — as to debase its nature to 
the level of scholastic frivolities : he raises scholarship to the 
creative, and does not bow the creative to the scholastic. 

With respect to the language used by the characters intro- 
duced, I have studied carefully to avoid what has always seemed 
tome a fatal error in those who hav' . ttempted, in modern 
times, to introduce the beings of a classical age.* Author's 

♦ What the strong common sense of Sir Walter Scott has expressed so well 
in his Preface to “ Ivanhoe ” (ist edition), appears to me at least as appli- 
cable to a writer who draws from classical as to one who borrows from 
feudal antiquity. Let me avail myself of the words I refer to, aiif’ humbly 
and reverently appropriate them ^or the moment : — “ It is true that I neither 
can, nor do pretend, to the observation [observance ?] of complete accuracy 
even in matters of outward costume, much less in the more important points 
of language and manners. But the same motive which prevents my writing 
the dialogue of the piece in Anglo-Saxon, or in Norman-French f m Latin or 
in Greek\ and which prohibits my sending forth this essay printed with the 
types of Caxton or Wynken de Worde [written with a reed upo7i five rolls oj 
parchment^ fastened to a cylinder^ and adorned with a hoss], prevents my at- 
tempting to confine myself within the limits of the period to which my 
story is laid. It is necessary, for exciting interest of any kind, that the sub- 
ject assumed should be, as it yvereytj'anslated into the manners as well as the 
language of the age we live in. 


“In point of justice, therefore, to the multitudes who will, I trust, devour 
this book with avidity [hem 1], I have so for explained ancient manners in 
modem language, and so far detailed the characters and sentiments of my 
persons, that the modem reader will not find himself, I should hope, much 
trammelled by the repulsive dryness of mere antiquity. In this, I respect- 
fully contend, I have in no respect exceeded ^he fair license due to the author 
of a fictitious composition. 

• •••••••••• 

“ It is true," proceeds my authority, “that this license is confined withU 
legitimate bounds • the author must introduce nothing inconsistent with the 
manners of the age.*’ — Preface to “ Ivanhoe P 
I can add nothing to these judicious and discriminating remarks ; they 


PREFACE, 


9 

Aave mostly given to them the stilted sentences, the cold ana 
didactic solemnities of language which they find in the more 
admired of the classical writers. It is an error as absurd to 
make Romans in common life talk in the periods of Cicero, as 
it would be in a novelist to endow his English personages with 
the long-drawn sentences of Johnson and Burke. The fault is 
the greater, because while it pretends to learning, it betrays ii\ 
reality the ignorance of just criticism — it fatigues, it wearies, it 
revolts — and we have not the satisfaction, in yawning, to think 
that we yawn eruditely. To impart an)rthing like fidelity to the 
dialogues of classic actors, we must beware (to use a uni\ ersity 
phrase) how we “ cram ” for the occasion ! Nothing can give 
to a writer a more stiff and uneasy gait than the sudden and 
hasty adoption of the toga. We must bring to our task the 
familiarized knowledge of many years ; the allusions, the phrase- 
ology, the language generally, must flow from a stream that has 
long been full ; the flowers must be transplanted from a living 
soil, and not bought second-hand at the nearest market-place. 
This advantage — which is, in fact, only that of familiarity with 
our subject — is one derived rather from accident than merit, 
and depends upon the degree in which the classics have entered 
into the education of our youth and the studios of our maturity. 
Yet, even did a writer possess the utmost advantage of this 
nature which education and study can bestow, it might be 
scarcely possible so entirely to transport himself to an age so 
different from his own, but that he would incur some inaccuracies, 
some errors of inadvertence or forgetfulness. And when, in 
works upon the manners of the Ancients — works even of the 
gravest character, composed by the profoundest scholars — some 
such imperfections will often be discovered, even by a critic in 
comparison but superficially informed, it would be far too pre- 
sumptuous in me to hope that I have been more fortunate than 
men infinitely more learned, in a work in which learning is infi- 
nitely less required. It is for this reason that I venture to believe 
that scholars themselves will be the most lenient of my judges. 
Enough of this book, whatever its imperfections, should be found 
a portrait — unskilful, perhaps, in coloring, faulty in drawing, 
but not altogether unfaithful to the features and the costume of 
the age which I have attempted to paint. May it be (what is far 
more important) a just representation of the human passions 
and the human heart, whose elements in all ages are the same I 

form the canons of true criticism, by which all fiction that portrays the pait 
should be judged. 



THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIi 


»OOK THE FIRST. 


CHAPTER I. 

The two gentlemen of Pompeii 

** Ho, Diomed, well met ! Do you sup with Glaucus to- 
night ? ” said a young man of small stature, who wore his tunic 
in those loose and effeminate folds which proved him to be a 
gentleman and a coxcomb. 

Alas, no I dear Clodius ; he has not invited me,” replied 
Diomed, a man of portly frame and of middle age. “ By Pollux, 
a scurvy trick ! for they say his suppers are the best in Pompeii.” 

“ Pretty well — though there is never enough of wine for me. 
It is not the old Greek blood that flows in his veins, for he 
pretends that wine makes him dull the next morning.” 

There may be another reason for that thrift,” said Diomed, 
raising his brows. “ With all his conceit and extravagance he 
is not so rich, I fancy, as he affects to be, and perhaps loves to 
save his amphorae better than his wit.” 

“ An additional reason for supping with him while the ses- 
terces last. Next year, Diomed, we must find another Glaucus.” 

“ He is fond of the dice, too, I hear.” 

“ He is fond of every pleasure ; and while he likes the 
pleasure of giving suppers, we are all fond of ^/w.” 

“ Ha, ha, Clodius, that is well said 1 Have you ever seen 
my wine-cellars, by the bye ? ” 

“ I think not, my good Diomed.” 

Well, you must sup with me some eveniof* •, I have toler 
2 


i8 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEH, 


able muraenae* in my reservoir, and I will ask Pansa the aedile 
to meet you.” 

“ Oh, no state with me ! — Persicos odi apparatus^ I am easily 
contented. Well, the day wanes ; I am for the baths — and 


“To the questor — business of state — afterwards to the 
temple of Isis. VaU 

“ An ostentatious, bustling, ill-bred fellow,” muttered Clo- 
dius to himself, as he sauntered slowly away. “ He thinks with 
his feasts and his wine-cellars to make us forget that he is the 
son of a freedman : — ^and so we will, when we do him the honor 
of winning his money ; these rich plebeians are a harvest for us 
spendthrift nobles.” 

Thus soliloquizing, Clodius arrived in the Via Domitiana, 
which was crowded with passengers and chariots, and exhibited 
all that gay and animated exuberance of life and motion which 
we find at this day in the streets of Naples. 

The bells of the cars as they rapidly glided by each other, 
jingled merrily on the ear, and Clodius with smiles or nods 
claimed familiar acquaintance with whatever equipage was 
most elegant or fantastic : in fact no idler was better known in 
Pompeii. 

“ What, Clodius ! and how have you slept on your good for- 
tune ? ” cried, in a pleasant and musical voice, a young man, in 
a chariot of the most fastidious and graceful fashion. Upon 
its surface of bronze were elaborately wrought, in the still ex- 
quisite workmanship of Greece, reliefs of the Olympian games ; 
the two horses that drew the car were of the rarest breed of 
Parthia ; their slender limbs seemed to disdain the ground and 
court the air, and yet at the slightest touch of the charioteer, 
who stood behind the young owner of the equipage, they 
paused motionless, as if suddenly transformed into stone — 
lifeless, but life-like, as one of the breathing wonders of Praxi- 
teles. The owner himself was of that slender and beautiful 
symmetry from which the sculptors of Athens drew their mod- 
els ; his Grecian origin betrayed itself in his light but cluster- 
ing locks, and the perfect harmony of his features. He wore 
no toga, which in the time of the emperors had indeed ceased 
to be the general distinction of the Romans, and was especially 
ridiculed by the pretenders to fashion ; but his tunic glowed in 
the richest hues of the T)rrian dye, and the fibulae, or buck- 
les, by which it was fastened, sparkled with emeralds : around 
his neck was a chain of gold, which in the middle of his breast 


* — ^lampreys 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


19 

twisted Itself into the form of a serpent^s hdad, from the mouth 
of which hung pendent a large signet ring of elaborate and 
most exquisite workmanship ; the sleeves of the tunic were 
loose, and fringed at the hand with gold : and across the waist 
a ^rdle wrought in arabesque designs, and of the same ma- 
terial as the fringe, served in lieu of pockets for the receptacle 
of the handkerchief and the purse, the stilus and the tablets. 

“ My dear Glaucus ! ” said Clodius, “I rejoice to see that 
your losses have so little affected your mien. Why, you seem 
as if you had been inspired by Apollo, and your face shines 
with happiness like a glory ; any one might take you for the 
winner, and me for the loser.” 

“ And what is there in the loss or gain of those dull pieces 
of metal that should change our spirit, my Clodius By Venus, 
while yet young, we can cover our full locks with chaplets — 
while yet the cithara sounds on unsated ears — while yet the 
smile of Lydia or of Chloe flashes over our veins in which 
the blood runs so swiftly, so long shall we find delight in the 
sunny air, and make bald time itself but the treasurer of our 
joys. You sup with me to-night, you know.” 

“ Who ever forgets the invitation of Glaucus ! ” 

“ But which way go you now ? ” 

“ Why, I thought of visiting the baths ; but it wants an hour 
to the usual time.” 

“ Well, I will dismiss my chariot, and go with you. So so^ 
my Phylias,” stroking the horse nearest to him, which by a low 
neigh and with backward ears playfully acknowledged the 
courtesy : “ a holiday for you to-day. Is he not handsome, 
Clodius } ” 

“ Worthy of Phoebus,” returned the noble parasite, — “ or of 
Glaucus,” 


CHAPTER II. 

The blind flower-girl, and the beauty of fashion. — The Athenian's confes 
sion. — The reader’s introauction to Arbaces of Egypt. 

Talking lightly on a thousand matters, the two young me* 
sauntered through the streets : they were now in that quarter 
which was filled with the gayest shops, their open interiors all 
and each radiant with the gaudy yet harmonious colors of fres- 
coes, inconceivably varied in fancy and design. The sparkling 


to 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


fountains, that at every vista threw upwards their grateful 
spray in the summer air ; the crowd of passengers, or rather loi- 
terers, mostly clad in robes of the Tyrian dye ; the gay groups 
collected round each more attractive shop ; the slaves passing 
to and fro with buckets of bronze, cast in the most graceful 
shapes, and borne upon their heads ; the country girls stationed 
at frequent intervals with baskets of blushing fruit, and flowers 
more alluring to the ancient Italians than to their descendants 
(with whom, indeed, “ latet anguis in herbal* a disease seems 
lurking in every violet and rose),* the numerous haunts which 
fulfilled with that idle people the office of caf^s and clubs at 
this day ; the shops, where on shelves of marble were ranged 
th('. vases of wine and oil, and before whose thresholds, seats, 
protected from the sun by a purple awning, invited the weary 
to rest and the indolent to lounge — made a scene of such glow- 
ing and vivacious excitement, as might well give the Athenian 
spirit of Glaucus an excuse for its susceptibility to joy. 

“ Talk to me no more of Rome,” said he to Clodius. “ Pleas- 
ure is too stately and ponderous in those mighty walls : even in 
the precincts of the court — even in the Golden House of Nero, 
and the incipient glories of the palace of Titus, there is a cer- 
tain dulness of magnificence — the eye aches — the spirit is 
wearied ; besides, my Clodius, we are discontented when we 
compare the enormous luxury and wealth of others with the 
mediocrity cf our own state. But here we surrender ourselves 
easily to pleasure, and we have the brilliancy of luxury without 
file lassitude of its pomp.” 

“ It was from that feeling that you chose your summer re- 
treat at Pompeii ? ” 

“ It was. I prefer it to Baias : I grant the charms of the 
latter, but 1 love not the pedants who resort there, and who 
seem to weigh out their pleasures by the drachm.” 

'‘Yet you are fond of the learned, too; and as for poetry, 
why your house is literally eloquent with .^schylus and Homer, 
the epic and the drama.” 

“ Yes, but those Romans who mimic my Athenian ancestors 
do everything so heavily. Even in the chase they make their 
slaves carry Plato with them ; and whenever the boar is lost, 
out they take their books and their papyrus, in order not to 
lose their time too. When the dancing-girls swim before them 
in all the blandishment of Persian manners, some drone of a 
freedman, with a face of stone, reads them a section of Cicero 
“De Officiis.” Unskilful pharmacists! pleasure and study 


* See note («) at the end of voluir 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


21 


are not elements to be thus mixed together — they must be en- 
joyed separately : the Romans lose both by this pragmatical 
affectation of refinement, and prove that they have no souls 
for either. Oh, my Clodius, how little your countrymen know 
of the true versatility of a Pericles, of the true witcheries of 
an Aspasia! It was but the other day that I paid a visit to 
Pliny : he was sitting in his summer-house writing, while an 
unfortunate slave played on the tibia. His nephew (oh ! whip 
me such philosophical coxcombs !) was reading Thucydides* 
description of the plague, and nodding his conceited little 
head in time to the music, while his lips were repeating all the 
loathsome details of that terrible delineation. The puppy saw 
nothing incongruous in learning at the same time a ditty of love 
and a description of the plague.” 

“ Why, they are much the same thing,’* said Clodius. 

“ So I told him, in excuse for his coxcombry ; — but my 
youth stared me rebukingly in the face, without taking the jest, 
and answered, that it was only the insensate ear that the music 
pleased, whereas the book (the description of the plague, mind 
you !) elevated the heart. ‘ Ah ! ’ quoth the fat uncle, wheezing, 
‘ my boy is quite an Athenian, always mixing the utile with the 
dukel O Minerva, how I laughed in my sleeve ! While I was 
there, they came to tell the boy-sophist that his favorite f reed- 
man was just dead of a fever. ‘ Inexorable death ! ’ cried he ; 
— ‘get me my Horace. How beautifully the sweet poet con- 
soles us for these misfortunes ! ’ Oh, can these men love, my 
Clodius ? Scarcely even with the senses. How rarely a Roman 
has a heart ! He is but the mechanism of genius — he wants 
its bones and flesh.” 

Though Clodius was secretly a little sore at these remarks 
on his countrymen, he affected to sympathize with his friend, 
partly because he was by nature a parasite, and partly because 
it was the fashion among the dissolute young Romans to affect 
a little contempt for the very birth which, in reality, made 
them so arrogant : it was the mode to imitate the Greeks, and 
yet to laugh at their own clumsy imitation. 

Thus conversing, their steps were arrested by a crowd 
gathered round an open space where three streets met ; and, 
just where the porticos of a light and graceful temple threw 
their shade, there stood a young girl, with a flower-basket on 
her right arm, and a small three-stringed instrument of music 
in the left hand, to whose low and soft tones she was modulat- 
ing a wild and half-barbaric air. At every pause in the music 
she gracefully waved her flower-basket round, inviting the 
loiterers to buy, and many a sesterce was showered into the 


THE La^T da YS of POMPEII, 


n 

basket, either in compliment to the music or in compassion w 
the songstress — for she was blind. 

“ It is my poor Thessalian,” said Glaucus, stopping ; “ I 
have not seen her since my return to Pompeii. Hush ! hei 
voice is sweet ; let us listen.” 

THE BLIND FLOWER-GIRL’S SONG. 

I 

* Buy my flowers — O buy — I pray ! 

The blind girl comes from afar ; 

If the earth be as fair as I hear them say, 

These flowers her children are I 
Do they her beauty keep ? 

They are fresh from her lap, I know 
^or I caught them fast asleep 
In her arms an hour ago. 

With the air which is her breath— 

Her soft and delicate breath — 

Over them murmuring low 1 

On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet, 

And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet 
For she weeps — that gentle mother weeps — 

(As morn and night her watch she keeps, 

With a yearning heart and a passionate care) 

To see the young things grow so fair ; 

She weeps — for love she weeps ; 

And the dews are the tears she weeps. 

From the well of a mother’s love I 

II 

Ye have a word of light. 

Where love in the loved rejoices ; 

But the blind girl’s home is the House of Night, 

And its beings are empty voices. 

As one in the realm below, 

I stand by the streams of woe 1 
I hear the vain shadows glide, 

I feel their soft breath at my side. 

And I thirst the loved forms to see. 

And I stretch my fond arms around, 

And I catch but a shapeless sound. 

For the living are ghosts to me. 

Come buy — come buy ! — 

Hark ! how the sweet things sigh 
(For they have a voice like ours), 

‘The breath of the blind girl closes 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


The leaves of the saddening roses — 

We aie tender, we sons of light, 

We shrink from thb child of night ; 

From the grasp of the blind girl free us : 

We yearn for the eyes that see us — 

We are for night too gay. 

In your eyes we behold the day— 

O buy — O buy the flowers f ’ ” 

^ I must have yon bunch of violets, sweet Nydia,” said Glaih 
cus, pressing through the crowd, and dropping a handful of small 
coins into the basket ; “ your voice is more charming than ever.” 

The blind girl started forward as she heard the Athenian’s 
voice ; then as suddenly paused, while the blood rushed vio- 
lently over neck, cheek, and temples. 

“ So you are returned ! ” said she, in a low voice ; and then 
repeated half to herself, “ Glaucus is returned ! ” 

“Yes, child, I have not been at Pompeii above a few days. 
My garden wants your care, as before ; you will visit it, 1 trust, 
to-morrow. And mind, no garlands at my house shall be woven 
by any hands but those of the pretty Nydia.” 

Nydia smiled joyously, but did not answer ; and Glaucus, 
placing in his breast the violets he had selected, turned gayly 
and carelessly from the crowd. 

“ So, she is a sort of client of yours, this child ? ” said Clodius. 

“ Ay — does she not sing prettily ? She interests me, the 
poor slave I Besides, she is from the land of the Gods* hill— 
Olympus frowned upon her cradle — she is of Thessaly.’* 

“ The witches’ country.” 

“ True : but for my part I find every woman a witch ; and 
at Pompeii, by Venus ! the very air seems to have taken a love* 
philtre, so nandsome does every face without a beard seem in 
my eyes.” 

“ And lo ! one of the handsomest in Pompeii, old Diomed’s 
daughter, the rich Julia ! ” said Clodius, as a young lady, her 
face covered by her veil, and attended by two female slavey 
approached them, in her way to the bath. 

“ Fair Julia, we salute thee,” said Clodius. 

Julia partly raised her veil, so as with some coquetry to dis- 
play a bold Roman profile, a full dark bright eye, and a cheek 
over whose natural olive art shed a fairer and softer rose. 

“ And Glaucus, too, is returned ! ” said she, glancing mean- 
ingly at the Athenian. “ Has he forgotten,” she added, in a 
half-whisper, “ his friends of the last year ? ” 

“ Beautiful Julia ! even Lethe itself, if it disappear in one 
part of the earth, rises again in another. Jupiter does not 
allow us ever to forget for more than a moment ; but Venusi 


24 THE T DA YS OF POMPEII. 

more harsh still, vouchsafes not even a moment’s ob- 
livion.” 

“ Glaucus is never at a loss for fair words.” 

“ Who is, when the object of them is so fair ? ” 

“ We shall see you both at my father’s villa soon,” said Julia, 
turning to Clodius. 

We will mark the day in which we visit you with a white 
stone,” answered the gamester. 

Julia dropped her veil, but slowly, so that her last glance 
rested on the Athenian with affected timidity and real boldness ; 
the glance bespoke tenderness and reproach. 

The friends passed on. 

“ Julia is certainly handsome,” said Glaucus. 

“ And last year you would have made that confession in a 
warmer tone.” 

“ True : I was dazzled at the first sight, and mistook for a 
gem that which was but an artful imitation.” 

“ Nay,” returned Clodius, “ atl women are the same at heart. 
Happy he who weds a handsome face and a large dower. What 
more can he desire ? ” 

Glaucus sighed. 

They were now in a street less crowded than the rest, at the 
end of which they beheld that broad and most lovely sea, which 
upon those delicious coasts seems to have renounced its pre- 
rogative of terror — so soft are the crisping winds that hover 
around its bosom, so glowing and so various are the hues which 
it takes from the rosy clouds, so fragrant are the perfumes 
which the breezes from the land scatter ovei its depths. From 
such a sea might you well believe that Aphrodite rose to take 
the empire of the earth. 

“ It is still early for the bath,” said the G^'eek, who was the 
creature of every poetical impulse ; “ let us wander from the 
crowded city, and look upon the sea while the noon yet laughs 
along its billows.” 

‘‘ With all my heart,” said Clodius ; ‘‘ and the bay, too, is 
always the most animated part of the city.” 

Pompeii was the miniature of the civilization of that age. 
Within the narrow compass of its walls was contained, as it 
were, a specimen of every gift which luxury offered to power. 
In its minute but glittering shops, its tiny palaces, its baths, its 
forum, its theatre, its circus — in the energy yet corruption, in 
the refinement yet the vice, of its people, you beheld a model 
of the whole empire. It was a toy, a plaything, a showbox, in 
which the gods seemed pleased to keep the representation of 
the great monarchy of earth, and which they afterwards hid 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


«5 

from time, tx> give to the wonder of posterity ; — the moral of the 
maxim, that: under the sun there is nothing new. 

C.vwded in the glassy bay were the vessels of commerce 
and the gilded galleys for the pleasures of tlie rich citizensL 
The boats of the fishermen glided rapidly to and fro ; and afaf 
off you saw the tail masts of the fleet under the command of 
Pliny. Upon the shore sat a Sicilian, who, with vehement 
gestures and flexile features, was narrating to a group of fisher* 
men and peasants a strange tale of shipwrecked mariners and 
friendly dolphins : — ^just as at this day, in the modern neighbor- 
hood, you may hear upon the Mole of Naples. 

Drawing his comrade from the crowd, the Greek bent his 
steps toward a solitary part of the beach, and the two friefids, 
seated on a small crag which rose amidst the smooth pebbles, 
inhaled the voiuptuotas and cooling breeze, which, dancing over 
the waters, kept music with its invisible feet There was, per- 
haps, something in the scene that invited them to silence and 
reverie. Clodius, shading his eyes from the burning sky, was 
calculating the gains of the last week ; and the Greek, leaning 
upon his hand, and shrinking not from that sun, — ^his nation’s 
tutelary deity, — with whose fluent light of poesy, and joy, and 
love his own vines were filled, gazed upon the broad expanse, 
and envied, perhaps, every wind that bent its pinions towards 
the shores of Greece. 

" Tell me, Clodius,'^ said the Greek at last, ^ hast thon eve* 
been in love ? ” 

" Yes, very often." 

He who has loved often,” answered Giancus, ^ has kwed 
never. There is hut one Eros, though there are many coimter- 
fieks of him.” 

“ The coujnterfeits are not had little giods, upon the whole,” 
answered Ciodius. 

■“ 1 agree with you,'” returned the Greek. ^ I adore even the 
shadow of Love ; but I adore himself yet more.” 

“Art tbotu, them, soberly and earnestly in lo'ye^— Hast thou 
that feeling which the poets describe' — a feeling that makes us 
neglect our suppers, forswear the theatie, and write elegies ? I 
should never have thought it. You dissemble well.” 

■“I am not far gone enough for (that,” returned Glaueus, 
smiling; “or rather I say with Tibuhas, — 

^ He whom loves rule, where’er Ms path may he. 

Walks safe a-nd sacr^/ 

In fact, I am not m love ; but I could be if there were but 
occasion to see the object. Eros would light his torch, but the 
priests have given him no oii"^ 


THE LAST DA YS OF FOMPEIL 


f6 


“Shall I guess the object? — Is it not Diomed’s daughter! 
She adores you, and does not affect to conceal it; and, by 
Hercules, I say again and again, she is both handsome and rich. 
She will bind the door-posts of her husband with golden fillets.” 

“No, I do not desire to sell myself. Diomed’s daughter is 
handsome, I grant ; and at one time, had she not been the 

grandchild of a freed man, I might have Yet no — she carries 

all her beauty in her face ; her manners are not maiden-like, 
ard her mind knows no culture save that of pleasure.” 

“ You are ungratefuL Tell me, tlien, who is the fortunate 
virgin ? ” 

* You shall hear, my Clodius. Several months ago I was 
sojourning at Neapolis,* a city utterly to my own heart, for it 
still retains the manners and stamp of its Grecian origin, — and 
it yet merits the name of Parthenope, from its delicious air and 
its beautiful shores. One day I entered the temple of Minerva, 
to offer up my prayers, iiot for myself more than for the city on 
which Pallas smiles no longer. The temple was empty and 
deserted. The recollections of Athens crowded fast and melt- 
ingly upon me ; imagining myself still alone in the temple, and 
absorbed in the earnestness of my devotion, my prayers gushed 
from my heart to my lips, and I wept as I prayed. I was 
startled in the midst of my devotions, however, by a deep sigh ; 
I turned suddenly round, and just behind me was a female. 
She had raised her veil also in prayer ; and when our eyes 
met, methought a celestial ray shot from those dark and 
smiling orbs at once into my soul. Never, my Clodius, have 
I seen mortal face more exquisitely moulded : a certain mel- 
ancholy softened and yet elevated its expression ; that unut- 
terable something which springs from the soul, and which 
our sculptors have imparted to the aspect of Psyche, gave her 
beauty 1 know not what of divine and noble : tears rolling down 
her eyes. I guessed at once that she was also of Athenian 
lineage ; and that in my prayer for Athens her heart had re- 
sponded to mine. I spoke to her, though with a faltering voice 
— ' Art thou not, too, Athenian? * said 1, ‘ O beautiful virgin!’ 
At the sound of my voice she blushed, and half drew her veil 
across her face — * My forefathers’ ashes,’ said she, ‘ repose by 
the waters of Ilyssus : my birth is of Neapolis ; but my heart 
as my lineage, is Athenian.’ — ‘ Let us, then,’ said I, ‘ make our 
offerings together: ” and as the priest now appeared, w^e stood 
side by side, while we followed the priest in his ceremonial 
prayer ; together we touched the knees ot the goddess — ^to 


^Nanks. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII 


21 

gether we laid our olive garlands on the altar. I felt a strange 
emotion of almost sacred tenderness at this companionship. 
We, strangers from a far and fallen land, stood together and 
alone in that temple of our country’s deity : was it not natural 
that my heart should yearn to my countrywoman, for so I 
might surely call her ? I felt as if I had known her tor years; 
and that simple rites seemed, as by a miracle, to operate on 
the sympathies and ties of time. Silently we left the temple, 
and I was about to ask her where she dwelt, and if I might be 
permitted to visit her, when a youth, in whose features there 
was some kindred resemblance to her own, and who stood upon 
the steps of the fane, took her by the hand. She turned round 
and bade me farewell. The crowd separated us : I saw her no 
more. On reaching my home I found letters, which obliged 
me to set out for Athens, for my relations threatened me with 
litigation concerning my inheritance. When that suit was 
happily over, I repaired once more to Neapolis ; I instituted 
inquiries throughout the whole city I ; could discover no clue 
of my lost countrywoman, and, hoping to lose in gayety all 
remembrance of that beautiful apparition, I hastened to plunge 
myself amidst the luxuries of Pompeii. This is all my history. 
I do not love ; but I remember and regret. ” 

As Clodius was about to repl^, a slow and stately step ap- 
proached them, and at the sound it made amongst the pebbles, 
each turned, and each recognized the new-comer. 

It was a man who had scarcely reached his fortieth year, of 
tall stature, and of a thin but nervous and sinewy frame. His 
skin, dark and bronzed, betrayed his Eastern origin ; and his 
features had something Greek in their outline, (especially in the 
chin, the lip, and the brow,) save that the nose was somewhat 
raised and aquiline ; and the bones hard and visible, forbade 
that fleshy and waving contour which on the Grecian physiog" 
nomy preserved even in manhood the round and beautiful curves 
of youth. His eyes, large and black as the deepest night; 
shone with no varying and uncertain lustre. A deep, thought- 
ful, and half-melancholy calm, seemed unalterably fixed in 
their majestic and commanding gaze. His step and mien were 
peculiarly sedate and lofty, and something foreign in the 
fashion and the sober hues of his sweeping garments added to 
the impressive effect of his quiet countenance and stately form. 
Each of the young men^ in saluting the new-comer, made me- 
chanically, and with care to conceal it from him, a slight ges- 
ture or sign with their fingers ; for Arbaces, the Egyptian, was 
supposed to possess the fatal gift of the evil eye. 

“ The scene must, indeed, be beautiful, ” said Arbaces, with 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


f8 

a cold though courteous smile, “ which draws the gay Clodiufl^ 
and Glaucus the all admired, from the crowded thoroughfares 
of the city. ” 

“ Is Nature ordinarily so unattractive?” asked the Greek. 

“To the dissipated — yes.” 

“ An austere reply, but scarcely wise one. Pleasure delights 
in contrasts ; it is from dissipation that we learn to enjoy soli- 
tude, and from solitude dissipation.” 

“ So think the young philosophers of the Garden, ” replied 
the Egyptian ; “ they mistake lassitude for meditation, and 
imagine that, because they are sated with others, they know 
the delight of loneliness. But not in such jaded bosoms can 
Nature awaken that enthusiasm which alone draws from her 
chaste reserve all her unspeakable beauty : she demands from 
you, not the exhaustion of passion, but all that fervor, from 
which you only seek, in adoring her, a release. When, young 
Athenian, the moon revealed herself in visions of light to En- 
dymion, it was after a day passed, not amongst the feverish 
haunts of men, but on the still mountains and in the solitary 
valleys of the hunter. ” 

“ Beautiful simile ! ” cried Glaucus ; “ most unjust applica- 
tion ! Exhaustion ! that word is for age, not youth. By me, 
at least, one moment of satiety has never been known 1 ” 

Again the Egyptian smiled, but his smile was cold and 
blighting, and even the unimaginative Clodius froze beneath 
its light. He did not, however, reply to the passionate ex- 
clamation of Glaucus; but, after a pause, he said, in a soft 
and melancholy voice, — 

“ After all, you do right to enjoy the hour while it smiles 
for you; the rose soon withers, the perfume soon exhales. 
And we, O Glaucus ! strangers in the land, and far from our 
fathers’ ashes, what is there left for us but pleasure or regret* 
-—for you the first, perhaps for me the last. ” 

The bright eyes of the Greek were suddenly suffused with 
tears. ‘ Ah, speak not, Arbaces,” he cried — “speak not of 
our ancestors. Let us forget that there were ever other liber- 
ties than those of Rome ! And Glory ! — oh, vainly would we 
call her ghost from the fields of Marathon and Thermopylae ! ” 

“Thy heart rebukes thee while thou speakest,” said the 
Epyptian ; “ and in thy gayeties this night though wilt be more 
mindful of Leaena* than of Lias. Vale / ’’ 

♦ Leaena, the heroic mistress of Aristogiton, when put to the torture, bit 
out her tongue, that the pain might not induce her to betray the conspiracy 
against the sons of Pisistratus. The statue of a lioness, erected in he* 
honor, was to be seen at Athens in the time of Pausanias. 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 29 

Thus saying, he gathered his robe around him, and slowly 
swept away. 

“I breathe more freely,’’ said Clodius, “Imitating the 
Egyptians, we sometimes introduce a skeleton at our feasts. 
In truth, the presence of such an Egyptian as yon gliding 
shadow were spectre enough to sour the richest grape of the 
Faiernian.” 

“Strange man I” said Glaucus, musingly; “yet dead 
though he seem to pleasure, and cold to the objects of the 
world, scandal belies him, or his house or his heart could tell a 
different tale.” 

“ Ah ! there are whispers of other orgies than those of 
Osiris in his gloomy mansion. He is rich, too, they say. Can 
we not get him amongst us, and teach him the charms of dice ? 
Pleasure of pleasures 1 hot fever of hope and fear ! inexpres- 
sible un jaded passion how fiercely beautiful thou art, O Gam- 
ing 1 » 

“ Inspired — inspired I ” cried Glaucus, laughing ; “ the 

oracle speaks poetry in Clodius. What miracle next 1 ” 


CHAPTER III. 

Preantage of Glaucus — Description of the houses of Pompeii — A Classic 

revel. 

Heaven had given to Glaucus every blessing but one : it had 
given him beauty, health, fortune, genius, illustrious descent, 
a heart of fire, a mind of poetry; but it had denied him the 
heritage of freedom. He was born in Athens, the subject of 
Rome. Succeeding early to an ample inheritance, he had in- 
dulged that inclination for travel so natural to the young, and 
had drunk deep of the intoxicating draught of pleasure amidst 
the gorgeous luxuries of the imperial court. 

He was an Alcibiades without ambition. He was what a 
man of imagination, youth, fortune, and talents, readily be- 
comes when you deprive him of the inspiration of glory. His 
house at Rome was the theme of the debauchees, but also of 
the lovers of art ; and the sculptures of Greece delighted to task 
their skill in adorning the porticos and exedra of an Athenian. 
His retreat in Pompeii — alas 1 the colors are faded now, the 
walls stripped of their paintings ! — its main beauty, its elaborate 
finish of grace and ornament, is gone ; yet when first given 
once more to the day, what eulogie>‘. what wonder, did its 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


30 

minute and glowing decorations create — its paintings — ^ItS 
mosaics I Passionately enamored of poetry and the drama, 
which recalled to Glaucus the wit and the heroism of his race, 
that fairy mansion was adorned with representations of ^schy- 
lus and Homer. And antiquaries, who resolve taste to a trade, 
have turned the patron to the professor, and still (though the 
error is now acknowledged) they style in custom, as they first 
named in mistake, the disburied house of the Athenian 
Glaucus “the house of the dramatic poet.” 

Previous to our description of this house, it may be as well 
to convey to the reader a general notion of the houses of 
Pompeii, which we will find to resemble strongly the plans of 
Vitruvius ; but with all those differences in detail, of caprice 
and taste, which being natural to mankind, have always 
puzzled antiquaries. We shall endeavor to make this de- 
scription as clear and unpedantic as possible. 

You enter then, usually, by a small entrance-passage (called 
cestibulum)^ into a hall, sometimes with (but more frequently 
without — the ornament of columns ; around three sides of this 
hall are doors communicating with several bed-chambers 
(among which is the porter’s), the best of these being usually 
appropriated to country visitors. At the extremity of the hall, 
on either side to the right and left, if the house is large, there 
are two small recesses, rather than chambers, generally devoted 
to the ladies of the mansion ; and in the centre of the tessel- 
lated pavement of the hall is invariably a square, shallow 
reservoir for rain-water (classically termed impluviunt), which 
was admitted by an aperture in the roof above ; the said 
aperture being covered at will by an awning. Near this im- 
pluvium, which had a peculiar sanctity in the eyes of the 
ancients, were sometimes (but at Pompeii more rarely than at 
Rome) placed images of the household gods ; — the hospitable 
hearth, often menti med by the Roman poets, and consecrated 
to the Lares, was at Pompeii almost invariably formed by a 
movable brazier ; while in some comer, often the most ostenta- 
tious place, was deposited a huge wooden chest, ornamented 
and strengthened by bands of bronze or iron, and secured by 
strong hooks upon a stone pedestal so firmly as to defy the at- 
tempts of any robber to detach it from its position. It is sup* 
posed that this chest was the money-box, or coffer, of the mas- 
ter of the house ; though as no money has been found in any 
of the chests discovered at Pompeii, it is probable that it was 
sometimes rather designed for ornament than use. 

In this hall (or atrium^ to speak classically) the clients and 
7isitors of inferio*- '^anks were usually received. In the houses 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


3 « 

of the more ** respectable,” an atriensisy or slave peculiarly de- 
voted to the service of the hall, was invariably retained and his 
rank among his fellow-slaves was high and important. The res- 
ervoir in the centre must have been rather a dangerous orna- 
ment, but the centre of the hall was like the grass-plot of a 
college, and interdicted to the passers to and fro, who found 
ample space in the margin. Right opposite the entrance, at the 
other end of the hall, was an apartment {tablinum), in which 
the pavement was usually adorned with rich mosaics, and the 
walls covered with elaborate paintings. Here were usually kept 
the records of the family, or those of any public office that had 
been filled by the owner ; on one side of the saloon, if we may 
so call it, was often a dining-room, or triclinium ; on the othel 
side, perhaps, what we should now term a cabinet of gems, con- 
taining whatever curiosities were deemed most rare and costly; 
and invariably a small passage for the slaves to cross to the 
further parts of the house, without passing the apartments thus 
mentioned. These rooms all opened on a square or oblong 
colonnade, technically termed peristyle. If the house was small, 
its boundary ceased with this colonnade ; and in that case its 
centre, however diminutive, was ordinarily appropriated to the 
purpose of a garden, and adorned with vases of flowers, upon 
placed pedestals : while, under the colonnade, to the right and 
left, were doors, admitting to bedrooms,* to a second triclinium^ 
or eating-room (for the ancients generally appropriated two rooms 
at least to that purpose, one for summer, and one for winter — 
or perhaps, one for ordinary, the other for festive occasions); 
and if the owner affected letters, a cabinet, dignified by the 
name of library, — ^for a very small room was sufficient to con- 
tain the few rolls of papyrus which the ancients deemed a 
notable collection of books. 

At the end of the peristyle was generally the kitchen. Sup- 
posing the house was large, it did not end with the peristyle, and 
the centre thereof was not in that case a garden, but might be, 
perhaps, adorned with a fountain, or basin for fish ; and at its 
end, exactly opposite to the tablinum, was generally another 
eating-room, on either side of which were bedrooms, and per- 
haps, a picture-saloon, or pinacotheca,^ These apartments com- 
municated again with a square or oblong space, usually adorned 
on three sides with a colonnade like the peristyle, and very 
much resembling the peristyle, only usually longer. This was 

* The Romans had bedrooms appropriated not only to the sleep of nigh^ 
but also to the day siesta [cubicula diuma. 

t In the stately palais of Rome, this picture-room generally commuuii 
rated with the atriunr 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 


3 ^ 

the proper mridarium, or garden, being commonly adorned with 
a fountain, or statues, and a profusion of gay flowers : at its 
extreme end was the gardener’s house ; on either side, beneath 
the colonnade, were sometimes, if the size of the family required 
it, additional rooms. 

At Pompeii, a second or third story was rarely of importance, 
being built only above a small part of the house, and containing 
rooms for the slaves ; differing in this respect from the more 
magnificent edifices of Rome, which generally contained the 
principal eating-room (or cxnaculunt) on the second floor. The 
apartments themselves were ordinarily of small size ; for in 
those delightful climes they received any extraordinary number 
of visitors in the peristyle (or portico), the hall, or the garden ; 
—and even their banquet-rooms, however elaborately adorned 
and carefully selected in point of aspect, were of diminutive 
proportions ; for the intellectual ancients, being fond of society, 
not of crowds, rarely feasted more than nine at a time, so that large 
dinner-rooms were not so necessary with them as with us."^ But 
the suite of rooms seen at once from the entrance, must have had 
^ ^'^ery imposing effect : you beheld at once the hall richly paved 
and painted — the tablinum — the graceful peristyle, and (if the 
house extended farther) the opposite banquet-room and the gar- 
den, which closed the view with some gushing fount or marble 
statue. 

The reader will now have a tolerable notion <J the Pom- 
peian houses, which resembled in some respects the Grecian, 
but mostly the Roman fashion of domestic architecture. In 
almost every house there is some difference in detail from the 
rest, but the principal outline is the same in all. In all you 
find the hall, the tablinum, and the peristyle, communicating 
with each other ; in all you find the walls richly painted ; and 
in all the evidence of a people fond of the refining elegancies 
of life. The purity of the taste of the Pompeians in decoration 
is, however, questionable : they were fond of the gaudiest 
colors, of fantastic designs ; they often painted the lower half 
of their columns a bright red, leaving the rest uncolored ; and 
where the garden was small, its wall was frequently tinted to 
deceive the eye as to its extent, imitating trees, birds, temples, 
etc., in perspective — meretricious delusion which the graceful 
pedantry of Pliny himself adopted, with a complacent pride in 
its ingenuity. 

But the house of Glaucus was at once one of the smallest; 

♦ When th^ entertained very large parties, the feast was usua2b^ served 
in the hall. 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPBTL 


33 

and yet one of the most adorned and finished of all the private 
mansions of Pompeii : it would be a model at this day for the 
house of “a single man in Mayfair” — ^the envy and despair ot 
the coelibian purchasers of buhl and marquetry. 

You enter by a long and narrow vestibule, on the floor of 
which is the image of a dog in mosaic, with the welhknown 
“ Cave canem,” — or “ Beware the dog.” On their side is 
a chamber of some size ; for the interior part of the house not 
being large enough to contain the two great divisions of private 
and public apartments, these two rooms were set apart for the 
recept^ion of victors who neither by rank nor familiarity were 
entitled to admission in the penetralia of the mansion. 

Advancing up the vestibule you e.nter an atrium, that when 
first discovered was rich in paintings, wnich, in point of expres- 
sion, would scarcely disgrace a Rafaele. You may see them not! 
transplanted to the Neapolitan Museum ; they are still the adr 
miration of connoisseurs — ^they depict the parting of Achilles 
and Briseis. Who does not acknowledge the force, the vigor; 
the beauty, employed in delineating the forms and faces 
Achillies and the immortal slave t 

On one side the atrium, a small staircase admitted to th< 
apartments for the slaves on the second floor ; there also were tw^ 
or three small bedrooms, the walls of which portrayed the rape 
of Europa, the battle of the Amazons, etc. 

You now enter the tablinum, across which, at either end, hung 
rich draperies of Tyrian purple, half withdrawn.* On the walls 
was depicted a p)oet reading his verses to his friends ; and in the 
pavement was inserted a small and most exquisite mosaic, typical 
of the instructions given by the director of the stage to hh 
comedians. 

You passed through this saloon and entered the peristyle^ 
and here (as I have said before was usually the case with the 
smaller houses of Pomped) the mansion ended. From each d 
the seven columns that ador ned this court hung festoons of gar- 
lands ; the centre, supplying the place of a garden, bloomed with 
the rarest flowers placed in vases of white marble, that were sup- 
ported on pedestals. At the left hand of this small gard'^n was 
a diminutive fane, resembling one of those small chapels placed 
at the side of roads in Catholic countries, and dedicated to the 
Penates ; before it stood a bronze tripod : to the left of the colon- 
nade were two small cubicula, or bedrooms; to the right was the 
triclinium, in which the guests were now assembled. 

This room is usually termed by the antiquaries of Naples, 

•The tablinum was also secured at pleasure by sliding-doors. 

z 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


34 

“ The Chamber of Leda : ” and in the beautiful work of Sir 
William Gell, the reader will find an engraving from that most 
delicate and graceful painting of Leda presenting her new-born 
to her husband, from which the room derives its name. This 
charming apartment opened upon the fragrant garden. Round 
the table of citrean* wood, highly polished and delicately wrought 
with silver arabesques, were placed three couches, which were 
yet more common at Pompeii than the senpicircular seat that 
nad grown lately into fashion at Rome : and oi. these couches 
of bronze, studded with richer metals, were laid thick quiltings 
covered with elaborate broidery, and yielding luxuriously to the 
pressure. 

“ Well, I must own,” said the sedile Pansa, “ that your house, 
though scarcely larger than a case for one’s fibulae, is a gem of 
its kind. How beautifully painted is that parting of Achilles 
and Briseis ! — what a style ! — what heads ! — what a — hem ! ” 

“ Praise from Pansa is indeed valuable on such subjects,” 
said Clodius, gravely. “ Why, the paintings on his walls! — Ah 1 
there is, indeed, the hand of a Zeuxis I ” 

“You flatter me, my Clodius; indeed you do,” quoth the 
sedile, who was celebrated through Pompeii for having the 
worst paintings in the world ; ^or he was patriotic, and patro- 
nized none but Pompeians. “ You flatter me ; but there is 
something pretty — yEdepoi, yes — in the colors, to say nothing 
of the design ; — and then for tL^. kitchen, my friends — ah 1 that 
was all my fancy.” 

“ What is the design ? ” said Glaucus. “ I have not yet seen 
your kitchen, though I have often witnessed the excellence of 
Its cheer.” 

“ A cook, my Athenian — a cook sacrificing the trophies of 
his skill on the altar of Vesta, with a beautiful muraena (taken 
from the life) on a spit at a distance ; there is some invention 
there I ” 

At that instant the slaves appeared, bearing a tray covered 
with the first preparative initia of the feast. Amidst delicious 
figs, fresh hei bs strewed with snow, anchovies, and eggs, were 
ranged small cups of diluted wine sparingly mixed with honey. 
As these were placed on the table, young slaves bore round to 
each of the five guests (for there were no more) the silver basin 
ot perfumed water, and napkins edged with a purple fringe. 
But the aedile ostentatiously drew forth his own napkin, which 
was not, indeed, of so fine a linen, but in which the fringe was 

♦The most valued wood — not the modem citron-tree. My learned 
friend Mr. W. S. Landor, conjectures it wth much plausibility to have 
been mahogany. 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


3S 

twice as broad, and wiped his hands with the parade oi a man 
who felt he was calling for admiration. 

“ A splendid nappa that of yours,” said Clodius ; why the 
fringe is as broad as a girdle ! ” 

“ A trifle, my Clodius : a trifle I They tell me this stripe is 
the latest fashion at Rome ; but Glaucus attends to these things 
more than I.” 

“ Be propitious, O Bacchus ! ” said Glaucus, inclining rever- 
entially to a beautiful image of the god placed in the centre of 
the table, at the corners of which stood the Lares and the salt- 
holders. The guests followed the prayer, and then, sprinkling 
the wine on the table, they performed the wonted libation. 

This over, the convivialists reclined themselves on the 
couches, and the business of the hour commenced. 

“ May this cup be my last ! ” said the young Sallust, as the 
table, cleared of its first stimulants, was now loaded with the 
substantial part of the entertainment, and the ministering slave 
poured forth to him a brimming cyathus — “ May this cup be my 
last, but it is the best wine I have drunk at Pompeii ! ” 

“ Bring hither the amphora,” said Glaucus, “ and read its date 
and its character.” 

The slave hastened to inform the party that the scroll 
fastened to the cork betokened its birth from Chios, and its 
age a ripe fifty years. 

“ How deliciously the snow has cooled it I ” said Pansa. 
** It is just enough.” 

“ It is like the experience of a man who has cooled his pleas- 
ures sufficiently to give them a double zest,” exclaimed Sallust 

“ It is like a woman’s ‘ No,’ ” added Glaucus : “ it cools, but 
to inflame the more.” 

“ When is our next wild-beast fight ? ” said Clodius to Pansa 

^*It stands fixed for the ninth ide of August,” answered 
Parisa : on the day after the Vulcanalia ; — we have a most 
lovely young lion for the occasion.” 

“ Whom shall we get for him to eat ? ” asked Clodius. “ Alas ! 
there is a great scarcity of criminals. You must positively find 
some innocent or other to condemn to the lion, Pansa ! ” 

Indeed I have thought very seriously about it of late,” 
replied the asdile, gravely. “ It was a most infamous law that 
which forbade us to send our own slaves to the wild beasts. 
Not to let us do what we like with our owi.. that’s what I call 
gn infringement on property itself.” 

“Not so in the good old days of the Republic,” sighed 
Sallust. 

“ And then this pretended mercy to the slaves is such 4 


THE LAS r DAYS OF POMPEIL 


36 

disappoincment to the poor people. How they do love to sw 
a good tough battle between a man and a lion ; and all this 
innocent pleasure they may lose (if the gods don’t sand us a 
good criminal soon) from this cursed law ! ” 

“ What can be worse policy,” said Clodius, sententious- 
iy, ^‘than to interfere with the manly amusements of the 
people ? ” 

“ Well, thank Jupiter and the Fates ! we have no Nero at 
present,” said Sallust. 

'' He was, indeed, a tyrant ; he shut up our amphitheatre 
for ten years.” 

“ I wonder it did not create a rebellion,” said Sallust. 

“ It very nearly did,” returned Pansa, with his mouth full of 
wild boar. 

Here the conversation was interrupted for a moment by ' 
flourish of flutes, and two slaves entered with a single dish. 

“ Ah ! what delicacy hast thou in store for us now, my 
Glaucus ? ” cried the young Sallust, with sparkling eyes. 

Sallust was only twenty-four, but he had no pleasure in life 
like eating — ^perhaps he had exhausted all the others : yet had 
he some talent, and an excellent heart — as far as it went. 

“ I know its face, by Pollux ! ” cried Pansa. “ It is an Am- 
bracian Kid. Ho 1 [snapping his fingers, a usual signal to the 
slaves] we must prepare a new libation in honor to the new- 
comer.” 

** 1 had hoped,” said Glaucus, in a melancholy tone, “ to 
have procured you some oysters from Britain ; but the winds 
that were so cruel to Caesar have forbid us the oysters.” 

“ Are they in truth so delicious ? ” asked Lepidus, loosening 
to a yet more luxurious ease his ungirdled tunic. 

Why, in truth, I suspect it is the distance that gives the 
flavor ; they want the richness of the Brundusium oyster. But 
at Rome, no supper is complete without them.” 

“ The poor Britons ! There is some good in them after all,” 
said Sallust. They produced an oyster ! ” 

“ I wish they could produce us a gladiator,” said the aedile, 
whose provident mind was musing over the wants of the 
amphitheatre. 

“ By Pallus ! ” cried Glaucus, as his favorite slave crowned his 
streaming locks with a new chaplet, ‘‘ I love these wild spec- 
tacles well enough when beasts fights beast ; but when a man. 
one with bones and blood like ours, is coldly put on the arena, 
and torn limb from limb, the interest is too horrid : I sicken— 
I gasp for breath — I long to rush and defend him. The yells 
of the populace seem to me more dire than the voices of the 


THE LAST DA KS OF FOMPEIL 


37 

Punes chasing Orestes. I rejoice that there is so little chance 
of that bloody exhibition for our next show ! ” 

The sedile shrugged his shoulders. The young Sallust, who 
was thought the best-natured man in Pompeii, stared in sur- 
prise. The graceful Lepidus, who rarely spoke for fear of dis- 
turbing his features, ejaculated Hercle ! ” The parasite Clo- 
dius muttered “ .^depol ! ” and the sixth banqueter, who was 
the umbra of Clodius,* and whose duty it was to echo his richer 
friend, when he could not praise him, — the parasite of a parasite, 
— muttered also “ ^depol I ” 

“ Well, you Italians are used to these spectacles ; we Greeks 
are more merciful. Ah, shade of Pindar ! — the emulation of man 
against man — the generous strife — ^the half-mournful triumph — 
so proud to contend with a noble foe, so sad to see him over- 
come ! But ye understand me not.*' 

“ The kid is excellent,” said Sallust. The slave, whose duty 
it was to carve, and who valued himself on his science, had just 
performed that office on the kid to the sound of music, his 
knife keeping time, beginning with a low tenor and accomplish- 
ing the arduous feat amidst a magnificent diapason. 

“ Your cook is, of course, from Sicily ? ” said Pansa. 

“Yes, of Syracuse.” 

“ I will play you for him,” said Clodius. “We will have a 
game between the courses.” 

“ Better that sort of game, certainly, than a beast fight ; but 
I cannot stake my Sicilian — ^you have nothing so precious to 
stake me in return.” 

“ My Phillida — my beautiful dancing-girl I ” 

“ I never buy women,” said the Greek, carelessly rearrang- 
ing his chaplet. 

The musicians, who were stationed in the portico without, 
had commenced their office with the kid ; they now directed the 
melody into a more soft, a more gay, yet it may be, a more in- 
tellectual strain ; and they chanted that song of Horace begin- 
ning, “ Persicos odi,” etc., so impossible to translate, and which 
they imagined applicable to a feast that, effeminate as it seems 
to us, was simple enough for the gorgeous revelry of the time. 
We are witnessing the domestic, and not the princely feast 
—the entertainment of a gentleman ; and not an emperor or a 
senator. 

‘‘ Ah, good old Horace ! ” said Sallust, compassionately : 
“he sang well of feasts and girls, but not like our modern poets.* 

“The immortal Fulvius, for instance,” said Clodius. 


* See note ip) at the end of volone. 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII, 


38 


" Ah, Fulvius, the immortal ! ” said the umbra. 

“ And Spuraena ; and Caius Mutius, who wrote three epi<^ 
in a year — could Horace do that, or Virgil either ? ” said Lepi- 
dus. “ Those old poets all fell into the mistake of copying 
sculpture instead of painting. Simplicity and repose — that was 
their notion ; but we moderns have fire, and passion, and energy 
—we never sleep, we imitate the colors of painting, its life and 
its action. Immortal Fulvius ! 

“ By the way,” said Sallust, “ have you seen the new ode 
by Spuraena, in honor of our Egyptian Isis ? It is magnificent— 
the true religious fervor.” 

“ Isis seems a favorite divinity at Pompeii,” said Glaucus. 

“Yes! ” said Pansa, “she is exceedingly in repute just at 
this moment : her statue has been uttering the most remarkable 
oracles. I am not superstitious, but I must confess that she 
has more than once assisted me materially in my magistracy 
with her advice. Her priests are so pious, too I none of your 
gay, none of your proud, ministers of Jupiter and Fortune; they 
walk barefoot, eat no meat, and pass the greater part of the 
night in solitary devotion ! ” 

“An example to our other priesthoods, indeed! — Jupiter’s 
temple wants reforming sadly,” said Lepidus, who was a great 
reformer for all but himself. 

“ They say that Arbaces the Egyptian has imparted some 
most solemn mysteries to the priests of Isis,” observed Sallust 
“He boasts his descent from the race of Rameses, and de- 
clares that in his family the secrets of remotest antiquity are 
treasured.” 

“ He certainly possesses the gift of the evil eye,” said Clo* 
dius. “ If I ever come upon that Medusa front without the 
previous charm, I am sure to lose a favorite horse, or throw 
the canes * nine times running.” 

“ The last would be indeed a miracle ! ” said Sallust, gravely. 

“ How mean you, Sallust ? ” returned the gamester, with a 
flushed brow. 

“ I mean, what you would leave me if I played often with 
you ; and that is — nothing.” 

Clodius answered only by a smile of disdain. 

“ If Arbaces were not so rich,” said Pansa, with a stately 
air, “ I should stretch my authority a little, and inquire into 
the truth of the report which calls him an astrologer and a sor- 
cerer. Agrippa, when aedile of Rome, banished all such terrible 
citizens. But a rich man — ^vt is the duty of an aedile to protect 
the rich I ” 

♦ Canes or Canicula, the lowest throw at dice 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


59 

* What think you of this new sect, which I am toM ha? 
even a few proselytes in Pompeii, these followers of the Hebrew 
God — Christus ? 

“ Oh, mere speculative visionaries,’* said Clodius ; “ they 
have not a single gentleman amongst them ; their pi oselytes are 
poor, insignificant, ignorant people 1 ” 

“ Who ought, however, to be crucified for their blasphemy, • 
said Pansa, with vehemence; “they deny Venus and Jove! 
Nazarene is but another name for atheist Let me catch them, 
that’s all.” 

The second course was gone — the feasters fell back on their 
couches — there was a pause while they listened to the soft 
voices of the South, and the music of the Arcadian reed. 
Glaucus was the most rapt and the least inclined to break the 
silence, but Clodius began already to think that they had 
wasted time. 

“ Bene vobis / (your health) my Glaucus,” said he, quaffing 
a cup to each letter of the Greek’s name, with the ease of the 
practised drinker. “ Will you not be avenged on your ill-fortune 
of yesterday ? See, the dice court us.” 

“ As you will,” said Glaucus. 

“ The dice in summer, and I an aedile I ” * said Pansa, 
magisterially ; “ it is against all law.” 

“ Not in your presence, grave Pansa,” returned Clodius. 
rattling the dice in a long box ; “ your presence restrains all 
license ; it is not the thing, but the excess of the thing, that 
hurts.” 

“ What wisdom ! ” muttered the umbra. 

“ Well, I will look another way,” said the aedile. 

“ Not yet, good Pansa : let us wait till we have supped,** 
said Glaucus. 

Clodius reluctantly yielded, concealing his vexation with a 
yawn. 

“ He gapes to devour the gold,” whispered Lepidus to 
Sallust, in a quotation from the Aulularia of Plautus. 

“ Ah ! how well I know these polypi, who hold all they 
touch,” answered Sallust, in the same tone, and out of the same 
play. 

The third course, consisting of a variety of fruits, pistachio 
nuts, sweetmeats, tarts, and confectionery tortured into a thou- 
sand fantastic and airy shapes, was now placed upon the table : 
and the ministri, or attendants, also set there the wine (which 
bad hitherto been handed round to the guests) in large jugs of 


* See note {c) at the end of volume. 


40 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


glass, each bearing upon it the schedule of its age and ^ality. 

“ Taste this I>esbian, my Pansa,” said Saiiust ; “ it is exc^ 
lent.” 

“ It is not very old,” said Glaucus, “ but it has been made 
precocious, like ourselves, by being put to the fire : — the wine 
to the flames of Vulcan — we to those of his wife — to whose 
honor I pour this cup.” 

“It is delicate,” said Pansa, “but there is perhaps thf 
least particle too much of rosin in its flavor.” 

“ What a beautiful cup ! ” cried Clodius, taking up one of 
transparent crystal, the handles of which were wrought with 
gems, and twisted in the shape of serpents, the favorite fashion 
at PompeiL 

“ This ring,” said Glaucus, taking a costly jewel from the 
first joint of his finger, and hanging it on the handle, “ gives it 
a richer show, and renders it less unworthy of thy acceptance, 
my Clodius, on whom may the gods bestow health and fortune, 
long and oft to crown it to the brim ! ” 

“ You are too generous Glaucus,” said the gamester, hand- 
ing the cup to his slave; “but your love gives it a double 
value.” 

“ This cup to the Graces ! ” said Pansa, and he thrice emptied 
his calix. The guests followed his example. 

■“ We have appointed no directorto die feast,” cried Saiiust, 

“Let us throw for him, then,” said Clodius, rattling the 
<Loe-boK. 

“Nay,” cried Glaucus, “no cold and trite director for us 2 
no dictator of the banquet; no rex coTwiidi^ Have not the 
Romans sworn never to obey a king ? Shall we be less free 
than your ancestors ? Ho I musicians, let us have the song I 
composed the other night : it has a verse on this subject, ‘The 
Bacchic hymn of the Hours,’ ” 

The musicians struck their instruments to a wild Ionic air, 
while the youngest voices in the band chanted forth, in Greek 
words, as numbers, the following strain : — 

THE EVENING HYMN OF THE HOURS. 

1 . 

“Through the sirraiiver day, throogh the weary -day, 

We have glided krag ; 

Ere we speed to the N^ht through her portals 
Hail us with song ! — 

With song, with song, 

With a bright and joyous song; 

Such as the C ^ an maid. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMFJi.u, 




While the twilight made her bolder, 

Woke, high through the ivy shade, 

When the wine-god first consoled hea 
From the hush’d low-breathing skies. 

Half-shut looked their starry eyes, 

And all around, 

""^ith a loving sound, 

The ^gean waves were creeping: 

On her lap lay the lynx's head ; 

Wild thyme was her bridal bed; 

And aye through each tiny space, 

In the green vine’s green embrace. 

The Fauns were slyly peeping:— 

The Fauns, the prying Fauns— 

The arch, the laughing Fauns— 

The Fauns were slyly peeping* 

ir. 

Flagging and faint are we 
With our ceaseless flight. 

And dull shall our j umey be 
Through the realm of night. 

Bathe us, O bathe ou' weary wings. 

In the purple wave, as it freshly spring 
To your cups from the fount of light— 

From the fount of light — from the fount of ligh^’ 
For there, when the sun has gone down in night 
There in ihe bowl we find him. 

The grape is the well of that summer sun. 

Or rather the stream that he gazed upon. 

Till he left in truth, like the Thespian youth, ^ 
His soul, as he gazed, behind him. 

III. 

A cup to Jove, and a cup to Love, 

And a cup to the son of Maia ; 

And honor with three, the band zone-free. 

The band of the bright Aglaia. 

But since every bud in the wreath of pleasure 
Ye owe to the sister Hours, 

No stinted cups, in a formal measure. 

The Bromian law makes ours- 
He honors us most who gives us most. 

And boasts with a Bacchanal’s honest boast, 

He never will cotyrJ the treasure. 

Fastly we fleet, then seize our wings, 

And plunge us deep in the sparkling springs j 
And aye, as we rise with a dripping plume. 

We’ll scatter the spray round the garland’s blocJiii 
We glow — we glow. 

Behold as the girls of the Eastern wave 
Bore once with a shout to their cr^'stal cave 
The prize of the Mysian Hylas, 

Bven so — even su, 

* Narcissus, 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


We have caught the young god in our warm embraod* 

We hurry him on in our laughing race; 

We hurry him on, with a whoop and a song» 

The cloudy rivers of night al.'ng — 

Ho, ho 1 — we have caught thee, Psilas 1 " 

The guests applauded loudly. When the poet is your host 
his verses are sure to charm. 

“Thoroughly Greek,” said Lepidus : “the wildness, force, 
and energy of that tongue, it is impossible to imitate in the 
Roman poetry.” 

“ It is, indeed, a great contrast,” said Clodius, ironically at 
heart, though not in appearance, “to the old-fashioned and 
tame simplicity of that ode of Horace which we heard before. 
The air is beautifully Ionic : the word puts me in mind of a 
toast — Companions, I give you the beautiful lone.” 

“ lone ! — the name is Greek,” said Glaucus, in a soft voice. 

I drink the health with delight. But who is lone ? ” 

“ Ah ! you have but just come to Pompeii, or you would 
deserve ostracism for your ignorance,” said Lepidus, conceit- 
edly : “ not to know lone, is not to know the chief charm of 
our city.” 

“ She is of the most rare beauty,” said Pansa ; “ and what 
a voice ! ” 

“ She can feed only on nightingales* tongues,” said Clodius. 

‘Nightingales’ tongues! — beautiful thought I” sighed the 
' umbra. 

“ Enlighten me, I beseech you,” said Glaucus. 

“ Know then ” began Lepidus. 

“Let me speak,” cried Clodius; “you drawl out your words 
as if you spoke tortoises.” 

“ And you speak stones,” muttered the coxcomb to himself, 
as he fell back disdainfully on his couch. 

“ Know then, my Glaucus,” said Clodius, “ that lone is a 
stranger who has but lately come to Pompeii. She sings like 
Sappho, and her songs are her own composing ; and as for the 
tibia, and the cithara, and the lyre, I know not in which she 
most outdoes the Muses. Her beauty is most dazzling. Her 
house is perfect ; such taste — such gems — such bronzes ! She 
IS rich, and generous as she is rich.” 

“ Her lovers, of course,” said Glaucus, “ take care that she 
does not starve; and money lightly won is always lavishly spent.’* 

“ Her lovers — ah, there is the enigma ! lone has but one 
vice — she is chaste. She has all Pompeii at her feet, and she 
has no lovers : she will not even marry.” 

“No lovers I ” echoed Glaucus. 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII, 


43 

“No ; she has the soul of Vesta, with the girdle of Venus.** 

“ What refined expressions ! ” said the umbra. 

“ A miracle ! ” cried Glaucus. “ Can we not see her ? ** 

“ I will take you there this evening,” said Clodius ; “ mean- 
while ,” added he, once more rattling the dice. 

“ I am yours ! ” said the complaisant Glaucus. “ Pansa, 
turn your face ! ” 

Lepidus and Sallust played at odd and even, and the umbra 
looked on, while Glaucus and Clodius became gradually ab- 
sorbed in the chances of the dice. 

“ By Pollux I ” cried Glaucus, “ this is the second time I 
have thrown the caniculae” (the lowest throw). 

“ Now Venus befriend me ! ” said Clodius, rattling the box 
for several moments. “ O Alma Venus — it is Venus herself 1 ” 
as he threw the highest cast, named from that goddess, — whom 
he who wins money, indeed, usually propitiates ! 

“ Venus is ungrateful to me,” said Glaucus, gayly ; “I have 
always sacrificed on her altar.” 

“He who plays with Clodius,” whispered Lepidus, “will 
soon, like Plautus’s Curculio, put his pallium for the stakes.” 

“ Poor Glaucus ! — he is as blind as Fortune herself,” replied 
Sallust, in the same tone. 

“ I will play no more,” said Glaucus ; “ I have lost thirty 
sestertia.” 

“ I am sorry ,” began Clodius. 

“ Amiable man ! ” groaned the umbra. 

“ Not at all I ” exclaimed Glaucus ; “ the pleasure I take in 
your gain compensates the pain of my loss.” 

The conversation now grew general and animated ; the wine 
circulated more freely ; and lone once more became the subject 
of eulogy to the guests of Glaucus. 

“ Instead of outwatching the stars, let us visit one at whose 
beauty the stars grow pale,” said Lepidus. 

Clodius, who saw no chance of renewing the dice, seconded 
the proposal ; and Glaucus, though he civilly pressed his guests 
to continue the banquet, could not but let them see that his 
curiosity had been excited by the praises of lone : they there- 
fore resolved to adjourn (all, at least, but Pansa and the um- 
bra) to the house of the fair Greek. They drank, therefore, to 
the health of Glaucus and of Titus — they performed their last 
libation — they resumed their slippers — they descended the stairs 
— ^passed the illuminated atrium — and walking unbidden over 
the fierce dog painted on the threshold, found themselves be- 
neath the light of the moon just risen, in the lively and still 
crowded streets of Pompeii. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


They passed the jewellers* quarter, sparkling with lightSi 
caught and reflected by the gems displayed in the shops, and 
arrived at last at the door of lone. The vestibule blazed with 
rows of lamps ; curtains of embroidered purple hung on either 
aperture of the tablinum, whose walls and mosaic pavement 
glowed with the richest colors of the artist ; and under the por- 
tico which surrounded the odorous viridarium they found lone, 
already surrounded by adoring and applauding guests I 

“ Did you say she was Athenian ? ” whispered Glaucus, ere 
he passed into the peristyle. 

“No, she is from Neapolis.” 

“ Neapolis ! ” echoed Glaucus ; and at that moment the 
group, dividing on either side of lone, gave to his view that 
bright, that nymph-like beauty, which for months had shone 
down upon the waters of his memory. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The Temple of Isis. — Its Priest. — The character of Arbaces develops 

itself. 

The story returns to the Egyptian. We left Arbaces upon 
the shores of the noon-day sea, after he had parted from Glau- 
cus and his companion. As he approached to the more crowded 
part of the bay, he paused and gazed upon that animated 
scene with folded arms, and a bitter smile upon his dark 
features. 

“ Gulls, dupes, fools, that ye are 1 ” muttered he to himself ; 
“ whether business or pleasure, trade or religion, be your pur- 
suit, you are equally cheated by the passions that ye should 
rule ! How could I loathe you, if I did not hate — ^yes, hate ! 
Greek or Roman. It is from us, from the dark lore of Egypt; 
that ye have stolen the fire that gives you souls. Your 
knowledge — your poesy — ^your laws — your arts — your barbarous 
mastery of war (all how tame and mutilated when compared 
with the vast original !) — ^ye have filched, as a slave filches the 
fragments of the feast, from us ! And now, ye mimics of a 
mimic ! — Romans, forsooth I the mushroom herd of robbers 1 
yt are our masters ! the pyramids look down no more on the 
race of Rameses — ^the eagle cowers over the serpent of the Nile. 
Our masters — no, not mine. My soul, by the power of its wis' 
dom, controls and chains you, though the fetters are unseen. 
So long as craft can master force, so long as religion has a cav® 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


4S 

from which oracles can dupe mankind, the wise hold an empire 
over earth. Even from your vices Arbaces distils his pleas- 
ures ; — pleasures unprofaned by vulgar eyes — pleasures vast, 
wealthy, inexhaustible, of which your enervate minds, in their 
unimaginative sensuality, cannot conceive or dream 1 Plod on, 
plod on, fools of ambition and of avarice 1 your petty thirst 
for fasces and quaestorships, and all the mummery of servile 
power, provokes my laughter and ray scorn. My power can 
extend wherever man believes. I ride over the souls that the 
purple veils. Thebes may fall, Egypt be a name ; the worid 
itself furnishes the subjects of Arbaces.” 

Thus saying, the Eg)q)tian moved slowly on ; and, entering 
the town, his tall figure towered above the crowded throng of 
the forum, and swept towards the smajl but graceful temple 
consecrated to Isis.* 

That edifice was then but of recent erection ; the ancienf 
temple had been thrown down in the earthquake sixteen years 
before, and the new building had become as much in vogue 
with the versatile Pompeians as a new church or a new preacher 
may be with us. The oracles of the goddess at Pompeii were 
indeed remarkable, not more for the mysterious language in 
which they were clothed, than for the credit which was attached 
to their mandates and predictions. If they were not dictated 
by a divinity, they were framed at least by a profound knowl- 
edge of mankind ; tliey applied themselves exactly to the cir- 
cumstances of individuals, and made a notable contrast to the 
vague and loose generalities of their rival temples. As Ar- 
baces now arrived at the rails which separated the profane 
from the sacred place, a crowd, composed of all classes, but 
especially of the commercial, collected, breathless and reveren- 
tial, before the many altars which rose in the open court. In 
the walls of the cella, elevated on seven steps of Parian marble^ 
various statues stood in niches, and those walls were ornar 
mented with the pomegranate consecrated to Isis. An oblong 
pedestal occupied the interior building, on which stood two 
statues, one of Isis, and its companion represented the silent 
and mystic Orus. But the building contained many other 
deities to grace the court of the Egyptian deity ; her kindred 
and many-titled Bacchus, and the Cyprian Venus, a Grecian 
disguise for herself, rising from her bath, and the dog-headed 
Anubis, and the ox Apis, and various Egyptian idols of uncouth 
form and unknown appellations. 

But we must not suppose that, among the cities of Magna 


♦ See note {a) at the end of volume 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


46 

Graecia, Isis was worshipped with those forms and ceremonies 
which were of right her own. The mongrel and modern nations 
of the South, with a mingled arrogance and ignorance, con- 
founded the worships of all climes and ages. And the pro- 
found mysteries of the Nile were degraded by a hundred mere- 
tricious and frivolous admixtures from the creeds of Cephisua 
and of Tibur. The temple of Isis in Pompeii was served by 
Roman and Greek priests, ignorant alike of the language and 
|the customs of her ancient votaries ; and the descendant of the 
dread Egyptian kings, beneath the appearance of reverential 
awe, secretly laughed to scorn the puny mummeries which imi- 
tated the solemn and typical worship of his burning clime. 

Ranged now on either side the steps was the sacrificial 
crowd, arrayed in white garments, while at the summit stood two 
of the inferior priests, the one holding a palm-branch, the other 
a slender sheaf of corn. In the narrow passage in front thronged 
the bystanders. 

“ And what,’^ whispered Arbaces to one of the bystanders, 
who was a merchant engaged in the Alexandrian trade, which 
trade had probably first introduced in Pompeii the worship of 
the Egyptian goddess — “ What occasion now assembles you 
before the altars of the venerable Isis ? It seems, by the white 
robes of the group before me, that a sacrifice is to be rendered ; 
and by the assembly of the priests, that ye are prepared for some 
oracle. To what question is it to vouchsafe a reply ?” 

“We are merchants,*’ replied the bystander (who was no 
other than Diomed), in the same voice, “ who seek to know the 
fate of our vessels, which sail for Alexandria to-morrow. We 
are about to offer up a sacrifice and implore an answer from the 
goddess. I am not one of those who have petitioned the priest 
to sacrifice, as you may see by my dress, but I have some interest 
in the success of the fleet ; — by Jupiter I yes. I have a pretty 
trade, else how could I live in these hard times ? ” 

The Egyptian replied gravely — “That though Isis was 
properly the goddess of agriculture, she was no less the patron 
of commerce.” Then turning his head towards the east, Ar- 
bdces seemed absorbed in silent prayer. 

And now in the centre of the steps appeared a priest robed 
in white from head to foot, the veil parting over the crown, two 
new priests relieved those hitherto stationed at either comer, 
being naked half-way down to the breast, and covered, for the 
rest, in white and loose robes. At the same time, seated at the 
bottom of the steps, a priest commenced a solemn air upon a long 
wind instrument of music. Half way down the steps stood an- 
other flamen, holding in one hana the votive wreath, in the other 


THE LAST DA YS OF FOMPEIL 


47 

a white wand ; while adding to the picturesque scene of that 
eastern ceremony, the stately ibis (bird sacred to the Egyptian 
worship) looked mutely down from the wall upon the rite, or 
stalked beside the altar at the base of the steps. 

At that altar now stood the sacrificial flamen.* 

The countenance of Arbaces seemed to lose all its rigid calm 
while the aruspices inspected the entrails, and to be intent in 
pious anxiety — to rejoice and brighten as the signs were declared 
favorable, and the fire began bright and clearly to consume the 
sicred portion of the victim amidst odors of myrrh and frankin- 
cense. It was then that a dead silence fell over the whispering 
crowd, and the priests gathering round the cella, another priest, 
naked save by a cincture round the middle, rushed forward, and 
dancing with wild gestures, implored answer from the goddess. 
He ceased at last in exhaustion, and a low murmuring noise was 
heard within the body of the statue, thrice the head moved, and 
the lips parted and tlieu a hollow voice uttered these mystic 
words ; — 


“ There are waves like chargers that meet and glow. 

There are graves ready wrought in the rocks below. 

On the brow of the future the dangers lour, 

But blest are your barks in the fearful hour.** 

The voice ceased — the crowd breathed more freely — the mer- 
chants looked at each other. “ Nothing can be more plain,** 
murmured Diomed. “ There is to be a storm at sea. As there 
very often is at the beginning of autumn, but our vessels are to 
be saved. O beneficent Isis 1 ” 

Lauded eternally be the goddess ! ” said the merchants ; 
** what can be less equivocal than her prediction ? ” 

Raising one hand in sign of silence to the people, for the rights 
of Isis enjoined what to the lively Pompeians was an impossible 
suspense from the use of the vocal organs, the chief priest poured 
his libation on the altar, and after a short concluding prayer the 
ceremony was over, and the congregation dismissed. Still how- 
ever, as the crowd dispersed themselves, here and there, the Egyp- 
tian lingered by the railing, and when the space became tolerably 
cleared, one of the priests, approaching it, saluted him with great 
appearance of friendly familiarity. 

The countenance of the priest was remarkably unprepos- 
sessing — his shaveu skull was so low and narrow in the front 
as nearly to approach to the conformation of that of an African 
savage, save only towards the temples, where in that organ 

I* See a singular picture, in the Museum of Naples, of an Egyptian sacrifice. 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 


gktyled acquisitiveness by the pupUs of a science, modem in 
nine, but best practically known (as their sculpture teaches •is^ 
amuLgst the ancients, two huge and almost preternatural pro 
tnberances yet more distorted the unshapely head ; — around 
the brows the skin was puckered into a web of deep and In 
tricate wrinkles — the eyes, dark and snail, rolled in a muddy 
And yellow orbit — the nose, short yet coarse, was distended ai 
the aostnls likt a satyr’s — and the thick but padid lips, the 
high cheek-bones, the livid and motley hues that straggled 
through the parchment skin, completed a countenance whi^ 
none could behold without repugnance, and few without terrbt 
and distrust : whatever the wishes of the mind, the animal framo 
was well fitted to execute them ; the wiry muscles of the throat, 
the broad chest, the nervous hands and lean gaunt arms, w^hich 
were bared above the elbow, betokened a form capable alike of 
great active exertion and passive endurance. 

“ Calenus,” said the Egyptian to this fascinating flamen, 
you have improved the voice of the statue much by attending 
tc my suggestion ; and your verses are excellent. Always pro- 
phesy good fortune, unless there is an absolute impossibility of 
its fulfilment.” 

** Eesiues,” added Calenus, ** if the storm does come, and if 
it does overwhelm the accursed ships, have we not prophesied 
It ? and are the barks not blest to be at rest ? — for rest prays 
»-he manner in the .^gean sea, or at least so says Horace ; — can 
the mariner be more at rest in the sea than when he is at the 
bottom of It f ” 

R’ght, my Calenus ; I wish Apaecides would take a lesson 
from yo'u wusdom. But I desire to confer with you relative to 
him and to other matters ; you can admit me into one of youi 
less sacred apartments ? ” 

** Assuredly,” replied the priest, leading the way to one of 
the small chambers which surrounded the open gate. Here 
they seated themselves before a small table spread with dishes 
containing fruit and eggs, and various cold meats, with vases ot 
excellent wine, of which while the companions partook, a cur. 
tain drawn across the entrance opening to the court, concealed 
them from view, but admonished them by the thinness of the 
pan tion to speak low, or to speak no secrets : they chose the 
former alternative. 

“Thou knowest,” said Arbaces, in a voice that scarcely 
stirred the air, so soft and inward was its sound, “ that it hai 
ever been my maxim to attach myself to the young. From 
their flexible and unformed minds I can carve out m3 fittest 
hjoIs. I weave — I warp — mould them at my will. Of the 


THE LAST DAYS POMPBIL 


I make merely followers or servants ; of the women 

‘‘ Mistresses,” said Caienus, as a livid grin distorted his un 
features. 

“ Yes, I do not disguise it ; woman is the main object, the 
great appetite of my soul. As you feed the victim for the slaugh 
rer, / love to rear the votaries of my pleasure. I love to train, to 
ripen theii minds — to unfold the sweet blossom of their hidlen 
passions, in order to prepare the fruit to my taste. I loathe your 
ready-made and ripened courtesans : it is in the soft and un- 
conscious progress of innocence to desire that I find the true 
charm of love it is thus that I defy satiety ; and by contem- 
plating the freshness of others, I sustain the freshness of my own 
sensations. From the young hearts of my victims I draw the 
ii^edients of the caldron in which I reyouth myself. But 
enough of this : to the subject before us. You know, then, that 
in Neapolis some time since I encountered lone and Apaecides, 
brother and sister, the children of Athenians who had settled at 
Neapolis. The death of their parents, who knew and esteemed 
me, constituted me their guardian. I was not unmindful of tlie 
trust. The youth, docile and mild, yielded readily to the im 
pression I sought to stamp upon him. Next to woman, I love 
the old recollections of my ancestral land ; I love to keep alive 
— to propagate on distant shores (which her colonies perchance 
yet people) her dark and mystic creeds. It may be that it 
pleases me to delude mankind, while I thus serve the deities. 
To Apaecides I taught the solemn faith of Isis. I unfolded to 
him something of those sublime allegories which are couched 
beneath her worship, I excited in a soul peculiarly alive to 
religious fervor that enthusiasm which imagination begets on 
faith. I have placed him amongst you : he is one of you.” 

“ He is so,” said Caienus : “ but in thus stimulating liis 
faith, you have robbed him of wisdom. He is horror-struck 
that he is no longer duped : our sage delusions, our speaking 
statues and secret staircases dismay and revolt him ; he pines ; 
lie wastes away ; he mutters to himself ; he refuses to share 
our ceremonies. He has been known to frequent the company 
of men suspected of adherence to that new and atheistical creed 
which denies all our gods, and terms our oracles the inspirations 
of that malevolent spirit of which eastern tradition speaks. Out 
oracles — alas ! we know well whose inspirations they are ! ” 

** This is what I feared,” said Arbaces, musingly, from vari- 
ous reproaches he made me when I last saw him. Of late he 
hath shunned my steps : I must find him : I must continue my 
lessons ; I must lead him into the adytum of Wisdom. I must 
him that there are two stages of sanctity^ ^ first, FAi m 
« 


THE LAST DA YS oP FOMPEIL 

— ^the next, delusion ; the one for the vulgar, the second to 
Ae sage.’* 

“ 1 never passed through the first,** said Calenus ; “ nor yaw 
eitiier, I think, my Arbaces.'* 

“ You err,” replied the Egyptian gravely. ** I believe at 
this day (not indeed that which I teach, but that which I teach 
not). Nature has a sanctity against which I cannot (nor would 
I) steel conviction. I believe in mine own knowledge, and 
that has revealed to me, — but no matter. Now toearthlier and 
more inviting themes. If I thus fulhlled my object with Apae- 
cides, what was my design for lone? Thou knowest already 
I intend her for my queen — my bride — my heart’s Isis. Never 
till I saw her knew I all the love of which my nature is 
capable.’* 

** I hear from a thousand lips that she is a second Helen,** 
said Calenus ; and he smacked his own lips, but whether at the 
wine or at the notion it is not easy to decide. 

“ Yes, she has a beauty that Greece itself never excelled,** 
resumed Arbaces. “ But that is not all : she has a soul worthy 
to match with mine. She has a genius beyond that of woman-— 
keen — dazzling — bold. Poetry flows spontaneous to her lips : 
utter but a truth, and however intricate and profound, heC 
mind seizes and commands it. Her imagination and her reason 
are not at war with each other ; they harmonize and direct her 
course as the winds and the waves direct some lofty hara. 
With this she unites a daring independence of thought; she 
can stand alone in the world ; she can be brave as she is 
gentle ; this is the nature I have sought all my life in woman, 
and never found till now. lone must be mine I In her 1 have 
a double passion ; 1 wish to enjoy a beauty of spirit as oi 
form.” 

“ She is not yours yet, then ? ” said the priest. 

“ No ; she loves me — but as a friend : — she loves me with 
her mind only. She fancies in me the paltry virtues which 1 
have only the profounder virtue to disdain. But you must 
pursue with me her history. The brother and sister were 
young and rich : lone is proud and ambitious — proud of hef 
genius — the magic of her poetry — ^the charm of her conversa- 
tion. When her brother l^t me, and entered your temple, in 
order to be near him she removed also to Pompeii. She has 
suffered her talents to be known. She summons crowds to 
her feasts ; her voice enchants them ; her poetry subduea. She 
delights in being thought the successor of Erinna.** 

" Or of Sappho ? ** 

**But Sappho without I 1 encouraged her in fhi ff 


THE LAST DA YS OF POAfFEJL 


5 » 

f^ess of career — in this indulgence of vanity and of pleasure: 
I love to steep her amidst the dissipations and luxury of this 
abandoned city. Mark me, Calenus ! I desired to enervate 
her mind ! — it has been too pure to receive yet the breath 
which i wish not to pass, but burningly to eat into, the mirror. 
I wished her to be surrounded by lovers, hollow, vain, and friv- 
olous (lovers that her nature must despise), in order to feel 
the want of love. Then, in those soft intervals of lassitude 
that succeed to excitement, I can weave my spells — excite her 
interest — attract her passions — possess myself of her heart. 
For it is not the young, nor the beautiful, nor the gay, that 
should fascinate lone ; her imagination must be won, and the 
life of Arbaces has been one scene of triumph over the imagi- 
nations of his kind.” 

“ And hast thou no fear, then, of thy rivals ? The gallants 
of Italy are skilled in the art to please.” 

“ None 1 Her Greek soul despises the barbarian Romans, 
and would scorn itself if it admitted a thought of love for one 
of that upstart race. ” 

“ But thou art an Egyptian not a Greek ! ” 

“ Egypt,” replied Arbaces, “ is the mother of Athens. Her 
tutelary Minerva is our deity ; and her founder, Cecrops, was 
the fugitive of Egyptian Sais. This have I already taught to 
her : and in my blood she venerates the eldest dynasties of 
earth. But yet I will own that of late some uneasy suspicions 
have crossed my mind. She is more silent than she used to 
be ; she loves melancholy and subduing music ; she sighs with- 
out an outward cause. This may be the beginning of love — 
it may be the want of love. In either case it is time for me to 
begin my operations on her fancies and her heart ; in the one 
case, to divert the source of love to me ; in the other, in me to 
awaken it. It is for this that I have sought you.” 

** And how can I assist you ? ” 

I am about to invite her to a feast in my house : I wish 
to dazzle — to bewilder — to inflame her senses. Our arts — the 
arts by which Egypt trained her young novitiates — must be 
employed ; and, under veil of the mysteries of religion, I will 
open to her the secrets of love.” 

Ah ! now I understand : — one of those voluptuous ban- 
quets that, despite our dull vows of mortified coldness, we, thy 
priests of Isis, have shared at thy house.” 

“ No, no ! Thinkest thou her chaste eyes are ripe for such 
scenes ? No ; but first we must ensnare the brother — an easier 
task. Listen to me, while I give you my instructions.” 


53 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 


CHAPTER V 

More of the flower-girl. — ^The progress of love. 

The sun shone gayly into that beautiful chamber m t3i« 
iiouse of Glaucus, which I have before said is now called “ the 
Room of Leda.” The morning rays entered through rows of 
small casements at the higher part of the room, and through the 
door which opened on the garden, that answered to the inhabi- 
tants of the southern cities the same purpose that a green-house 
or conservatory does to us. The size of the garden did not adapt 
it for exercise, but the various and fragrant plants with which 
it was filled gave a luxur)" to that indolence so dear to the 
dwellers in a sunny clime. And now the odors, fanned by a 
gentle wind creeping from the adjacent sea, scattered them- 
selves over that chamber, whose walls vied with the richest 
colors of the most glowing flowers. Besides the gem of the 
room — ^the painting of Leda and Tyndarus — in the centre of 
each compartment of the walls were set other pictures of ex- 
quisite beauty. In one you saw Cupid leaning on the knees of 
Venus ; in another Ariadne sleeping on the beach, unconscious 
of the perfidy of Theseus. Merrily the sunbeams played to and 
fro on the tessellated floor and the brilliant walls — far more 
happily came the rays of joy to the heart of the young Glaucus. 

“ I have seen her, then,” said he, as he paced that narrow 
chamber — “ I have heard her — nay, I have spoken to her again 
— I have listened to the music of her song, and she sang of 
glory and of Greece. I have discovered the long-sought idol of 
my dreams ; and like the Cyprian sculptor, I have breathed life 
into my own imaginings.” 

Longer, perhaps, had been the enamored soliloquy of 
Glaucus, but at that moment a shadow darkened the threshold 
of the chamber, and a young female, still half a child in years, 
broke upon his solitude. She was dressed simply in a white 
tunic, which reached from the neck to the ankles ; under her 
arm she bore a basket of flowers, and in the other hand she 
held a bronze water-vase ; her features were more formed than 
exactly became her years, yet they were soft and feminine in 
their outline, and, without being beautiful in themselves, they 
were almost made so by their beauty of expre^»^n ; there was 


THE LAST DAYS POMPEIL 


55 

something ineffably gentle, and you would say patient, in her 
aspect. A look of resigned sorrow, of tranquil endurance, had 
banished the smile, but not the sweetness, from her lips , some- 
thing timid and cautious in her step — something wandering m 
her eyes, led you to suspect the affliction which she had suf- 
fered from her birth : — she was blind ; but in the orbs them- 
selves there was no visible defect — their melancholy and sub- 
dued light was clear, cloudless, and serene. “ They tell me 
that Glaucus is here,” said she ; “ may I come in ? ” 

“ Ah, my Nydia,” said the Greek, “ is that you : I knew 
you would not neglect my invitation.” 

“Glaucus did but justice to himself,” answered Nydia, with 
a blush ; “ for he has always been kind to the poor blind girl.” 

“ Who could be otherwise ? ” said Glaucus, tenderly, and in 
die voice of a compassionate brother. 

Nydia sighed and paused before she resumed, without re- 
plying to his remark. “ You have but lately returned ? ” 

“ This is the sixth sun that hath shone upon me at Pompeii.” 

“ And you are well ? — Ah, I need not ask — for who that sees 
the earth, which they tell me is so beautiful, can be ill } ” 

“ I am well. And you, Nydia — how you have grown ! Next 
year you will be thinking what answer to make to your lovers.” 

A second blush passed over the cheek of Nydia, but this 
time she frowned as she blushed. “ I have brought you some 
flowers,” said she, without replpngto a remark that she seemed 
to resent ; and feeling about the room till she found the table 
that stood by Glaucus, she laid the basket upon it : “ they are 
poor, but they are fresh-gathered.” 

“ They might come from Flora herself,” said he, kindly ; 
“ and I renew again my vow to the Graces, that I will wear no 
other garlands while thy hands can weave me such as these.” 

“ And how find you the flowers in your viridarium ? — are 
they thriving ? ” 

“ Wonderfully so — the Lares themselves must have tended 
them.” 

“ Ah, now you give me pleasure ; for I came, as often as I 
could steal the leisure, to water and tend them in your absence.” 

“ How shall I thank thee, fair Nydia ? ” said the Greek. 
“ Glaucus little dreamed that he left one memory so watchful 
over his favorites at Pompeii.” 

The hand of the child trembled, and her breast heaved be- 
neath her tunic. She turned round in embarrassment. “ The 
sun is hot for the poor flowers,” said she, “ to-day, and they 
will miss me ; for I have been ill lately, and it is nine day* 
since I visited them.” 


54 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


III, Nydia I — yet your cheek has more color than it had 
year.” 

“ I am often ailing,” said the blind girl, touchingly, “ and as I 

f row up I grieve more that I am blind. But now to the flowers 1 ” 
o saying, she made a slight reverence with her head, andpass^ 
ing into the viridarium, busied herself with watering the flowers. 

“ Poor Nydia,” thought Glaucus, gazing on her ; “ thine is a 
hard doom I Thou seest not the earth — nor the sun — nor the 
ocean — nor the stars; — above all, thou canst not behold 
lone.” 

At that last thought his mind flew back to the past evening, 
and was a second time disturbed in its reveries by the entrance 
of Clodius. It was a proof how much a single evening had 
sufficed to increase and to refine the love of the Athenian for 
lone, that whereas he had confided to Clodius the secret of his 
first interview with her, and the effect it had produced on him, he 
now felt an invincible aversion even to mention to him her name. 
He had seen lone, bright, pure, unsullied, in the midst of the 
gayest and most profligate gallants of Pompeii, charming rather 
tfian awing the boldest into respect, and changing the very 
nature of the most sensual and the least ideal : — as by her in- 
tellectual and refining spell she reversed the fable of Circe, 
and converted the animals into men. They who could not 
understand her soul were made spiritual, as it were, by the 
magic of her beauty ; — they who had no heart for poetry had 
cars, at least, for the melody of her voice. Seeing her thus 
surrounded, purifying and brightening all things with her pres- 
ence, Glaucus almost for the first time felt the nobleness of his 
own nature, — he felt how unworthy of the goddess of his dreams 
had been his companions and his pursuits. A veil seemed lifted 
from his eyes ; he saw the immeasurable distance between him- 
self and his associates v/hich the deceiving mists of pleasure had 
hitherto concealed ; he was refined by a sense of his courage in 
aspiring to lone. He felt that henceforth it was his destiny to 
look upward and to soar. He could no longer breatf e that name, 
which sounded to the sense of his ardent fancy as something 
sacred and divine, to lewd and vulgar ears. She was no longer 
the beautiful girl once seen and passionately remembered — she 
was already the mistress, the divinity of his soul. This feeling 
who has not experienced ?— If thou hast not, then thou hast 
aever loved. 

When Clodius therefore spoke to him in affected transports 
of the beauty of lone, Glaucus felt only resentment and dis- 
gust that such lips should dare to praise her ; he answered coldly, 
and the Roman imagined that his passion was cured instead 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


55 

fcefghtened. Clodius scarcely regretted it, for he was anxious 
that Glaucus should marry an heiress yet more richly endowed 
—Julia, the daughter of the wealthy Diomed, whose gold the 
gamester imagined he could readily divert into his own coffers. 
Their conversation did not flow with its usual ease ; and no 
sooner had Clodius left him than Glaucus bent his way to the 
house of lone. In passing by the threshold he again encoun« 
tered Nydia, who had finished her graceful task. She knew hie 
step on the instant. 

“ You are early abroad ! ” said she. 

“Yes: for the skies of Campania rebuke the sluggard who 
neglects them.” 

“ Ah, would I could see them 1 ” murmured the blind girl, 
but so low that Glaucus did not overhear the complaint. 

The Thessalian lingered on the threshold a few moments, and 
then guiding her steps by a long staff, which she used with great 
dexterity, she took her away homeward. She soon turned from 
the more gaudy streets, and entered a quarter of the town but 
little loved by the decorous and the sober. But from the low 
and rude evidences of vice around her she was saved by her 
misfortune. And at that hour the streets were quiet and silent, 
nor was her youthful ear shocked by the sounds which too 
often broke along the obscene and obscure haunts she patiently 
and sadly traversed. 

She knocked at the back-door of a sort of tavern ; it opened, 
and a rude voice bade her give an account of the sesterces. 
Ere she could reply, another voice, less vulgarly accented, 
said — 

“ Never mind those petty profits, my Burbo. The girl’s voice 
will be wanted again soon at our rich friend’s revels ; and he 
pays us, thou knowest, pretty high for his nightingales’ tongues.’* 

“ Oh, I hope not — I trust not,” cried Nydia, trembling, “ I 
will beg from §unrise to sunset, but send me not there.” 

“ And why ? ” asked the same voice. 

“ Because — ^because I am young, and delicately born, and the 
female companions I meet there are not fit associates for one 
who — who ” 

“Isa slave in the house of Burbo,” returned the voice iron- 
ically, and with a coarse laugh. 

The Thessalian put down the flowers, and, leaning her face on 
her hands, wept silently. 

Meanwhile, Glaucus sought the house of the beautiful 
Neapolitan. He found lone sitting amidst her attendants, who 
were at work around her. Her harp stood at her side, for lone 
herself was unusually idle, perhaps unusually thoughtful, that 


THE LAS^ OF POMPEII 


5 ^ 

day. He thought her even more beautiful by the morning 
light, and in her simple robe, than amidst the blazing lamps, 
and decorated with the costly jewels of the previous night : 
not the less so from a certain paleness that overspread het 
transparent hues — not the less so from the blush that mounted 
over them when he approached. Accustomed to flatter, flat- 
tery died upon his lips when he addressed lone. He felt it 
beneath her to utter the homage which every look conveyed. 
They spoke of Greece ; this was a theme on which lone loved 
rather to listen than to converse : it was a theme on which the 
Greek could have been eloquent forever. He described to her 
the silver olive groves that yet clad the banks of Ilyssus, and 
the temples, already despoiled of half their glories — but how 
beautiful in decay ! He looked back on the melancholy city of 
Harmodius the free, and Pericles the magnificent, from the 
height of that distant memory, which mellowed into one hazy 
light all the ruder and darker shades. He had seen the land 
of poetry chiefly in the poetical age of early youth ; and the 
asbociations of patriotism were blended with those of the flush 
and spring of life. And lone listened to him, absorbed and 
mute ; dearer were those accents, and those descriptions, than 
all the prodigal adulation of her numberless adorers. Was it 
a sin to love her countryman ? she loved Athens in him — the 
gods of her race, the land of her dreams, spoke to her in his 
voice ! From that time they daily saw each other. At the 
cool of the evening they made excursions on the placid sea. 
By night they met again in lone’s portico and halls. Their 
love was sudden, but it was strong ; it filled all the sources of 
their life. Heart — ^brain — sense — imagination, all were its 
ministers and priests. As you take some obstacle from two 
objects that have a mutual attraction, they met, and united at 
once ; their wonder was, that they had lived separate so long. 
And it was natural that they should so love. Young, beautiful, 
and gifted — of the same birth, and the same souls ; — there was 
poetry in their very union. They imagined the heavens smiled 
upon their affection. As the persecuted seek refuge at the 
shrine, so they recognized in the altar of thtir love an asylum 
from the sorrows of earth ; they covered it with flowers — they 
knew not of the serpents that lay coiled behind. 

One evening, the fifth after their first meeting at Pompeii, 
Glaucus and lone, with a small party of chosen friends, were 
returning from an excursion round the bay ; their vessel 
skimmed lightly over the twilight waters, whose lucid-mirroi 
Was only broken by the dripping oars. As the rest of the party 
conversed gayly with e.\ch other. Glaucus lay at the feet of ione^ 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPE2L 


57 

and he would have looked up in her face, but he did not dare, 
lone broke the pause between them. 

“ My poor brother,” said she, sighing, “ how once he would 
have enjoyed this hour ! ” 

“Your brother!” said Glaucus ; “I have not seen him 
Occupied with you, I have thought of nothing else, or 1 should 
have asked if that was not your brother for whose companionship 
you left me at the Temple of Minerva, in Neapolis ? ” 

“ It was.” 

“ And is he here ? ” 

“ He is.” 

“ At Pompeii ! and not constantly with you ? Impos- 
sible ! ” 

“ He has other duties,” answered lone, sadly ; “ he is a 
priest of Isis.” 

“ So young, too ; and that priesthood, in its laws at least, so 
severe i ” said the warm and bright-hearted Greek, in surprise 
and pity. “ What could have been his inducement ? ” 

“ He was always enthusiastic and fervent in religious de- 
votion ; and the eloquence of an Egyptian — our friend and 
guardian — kindled in him the pious desire to consecrate his 
life to the most mystic of our deities. Perhaps, in the intense- 
ness of his zeal, he found in the severity of that peculiar priest- 
hood its peculiar attraction.” 

“ And he does not repent his choice ? — I trust he is happy.” 

lone sighed deeply, and lowered her veil over her eyes. 

“ I wish,” said she, after a pause, “ that he had not beer so 
hasty. Perhaps, like all who expect too much, he is revolted 
too easily ! ” 

“ Then he is not happy in his new condition. And this 
Egyptian, was he a priest himself ? was he interested in recruits 
to the sacred band ? ” 

“ No. His main interest was in our happiness. He thought 
he promoted that of my brother. We were left orphans.” 

“ Like myself,” said Glaucus, with a deep meaning in his 
voice. 

lone cast down her eyes as she resumed, — 

“ And Arbaces sought to supply the place of our parent 
You must know him. He loves genius.” 

“ Arbaces 1 I know him already ; at least, we speak when 
we meet. But for your praise I would not seek to know more of 
him. My heart inclines readily to most of my kind. But that 
dark Egyptian, with his gloomy brow and icy smiles, seems to 
me to sadden the very sun. One would think that, like Epimen 
ides the Cretan, he had spent forty years in a cave, and ha«k 


jS the last da ys of pompetl 

found something unnatural in the daylight ever afterwards*" 
Yet, like Epimenides, he is kind, and wise, and gentle,* 
answered lone. 

“ Oh, happy that he has thy praise ! He needs no othef 
virtues to make him dear to me.” 

“ His calm, his coldness,” said lone, evasively pursuing the 
subject, “ are perhaps but the exhaustion of past sufferings ; as 
yonder mountain (and she pointed to Vesuvius), which we see 
dark and tranquil in the distance, once nursed the fires forever 
quenched.” 

They both gazed on the mountain as lone said these words ; 
the rest of the sky was bathed in rosy and tender hues, but 
over that gray summit, rising amidst the woods and vineyards 
that then clomb half-way up the ascent, there hung a black and 
ominous cloud, the single frown of the landscape. A sudden 
and unaccountable gloom came over each as they thus gazed ; 
and in that sympathy which love had already taught them, and 
which bade them, in the slightest shadows of emotion, the 
faintest presentiment of evil, turn for refuge to each other, their 
gaze at the same moment left the mountain, and, full of unim- 
aginable tenderness, met. What need had they of w’ords to 
say they loved ? 


CHAPTER VI. 

The fowler mares ar^ain the bird that had just escaped, and sets his nets for 
a new victim. 

In the history I relate, the events are crowded and rapid 
as those of the drama. I write of an epoch in which days 
sufficed to ripen the ordinary fruits of years. 

Meanwhile, Arbaces had not of late much frequented the 
house of lone ; and when he had visited her he had not en- 
countered Glaucus, nor knew he, as yet, of that love which 
had so suddenly sprung up between himself and his designs. 
In his interest for the brother of lone, he had been forced, too, 
a little while, to suspend his interest in lone herself. His 
pride and his selfishness were aroused and alarmed at the sud- 
den change which had come over the spirit of the youth. Pie 
trembled lest he himself should lose a docile pupil, and Isis an 
enthusiastic servant. Apsecides had ceased to seek or to con- 
sult him. He was rarely to be found ; he turned sullenly from 
the JEgyptian, — nay, he ffed when he perceived him in the di» 


THE LAST DA VS OF FOMPEIf. 


59 

taiKA. Arbaces was one of those haughty and powerful spirits 
accustomed to master others ; he chafed at the notion that one 
once his own should ever elude his grasp. He swore inly that 
Apaecides should not escape him. 

It was with this resolution that he passed through a thick 
grove in the city, which lay between his house and that of 
lone, in his way to the latter ; and there, leaning against a tree, 
and gazing on the ground, he came unawares on the young 
priest of Isis. 

“ Apaecides ! ” said he, — and he laid his hand affectionately 
on the young man’s shoulder. 

The priest started ; and his first instinct seemed to be that 
of flight. “ My son,” said the Egyptian, “ what has chanced 
that you desire to shun me ? ” 

Apaecides remained silent and sullen, looking down on the 
earth, as his lips quivered, and his breast heaved with emotion. 

“ Speak to me, my friend,” continued the Egyptian, 
Speak. Something burdens thy spirit. What hast thou to 
reveal > ” 

“To thee — nothing.” 

“ And why is it to me thou art thus unconfidential ? ” 

“ Because thou hast been my enemy.” 

“ Let us confer,” said Arbaces, in a low voice ; and draw- 
ing the reluctant arm of the priest in his own, he led him to 
one of the seats which were scattered within the grove. They 
sat down, — and in those gloomy forms there was something 
congenial to the shade and solitude of the place. 

Apaecides was in the spring of his years, yet he seemed to 
have exhausted even more of life than the Egyptian ; his deli- 
cate and regular features were wan and colorless : his eyes 
were hollow, and shone with a brilliant and feverish glare ; his 
frame bowed prematurely, and in his hands, which were small 
to effeminacy, the blue and swollen veins indicated the lassi- 
tude and weakness of the relaxed fibres. You saw in his face 
a strong resemblance to lone, but the expression was alto- 
gether different from that majestic and spiritual calm which 
breathed so divine and classical a repose over his sister’s 
beauty. In her, enthusiasm was visible, but it seemed always 
suppressed and restrained ; this made the charm and sentiment 
of her countenance ; you longed to awaken a spirit which re- 
posed, but evidently did not sleep. In Apaecides the whole 
aspect betokened the fervor and passion of his temperament, 
and the intellectual portion of his nature seemed, by the wild 
fire of the eyes, the great breadth of the temples when com- 
pared with the height of the brow, the trembling restlessness 


6o 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEIL 


of the lips, to be swayed and tyrannized over by the imagina 
tive and ideal. Fancy, with the sister, had stopped short at 
the golden goal of poetry ; with the brother, less happy and 
less restrained, it had wandered into visions more intangible 
and unembodied ; and the faculties which gave genius to the 
one threatened madness to the other. 

“ You say I have been your enemy,” said Arbaces. I know 
the cause of that unjust accusation : I have placed you amidst 
the priests of Isis — you are revolted at their trickeries and 
imposture- -you think that I too have deceived you — the purity 
of your mind is offended — ^you imagine that I am one of the 
deceitful ” 

“ You knew the jugglings of that impious craft,” answered 
Apaecides ; “ why did you disguise them from me ? — When you 
excited my desire to devote myself to the office whose garb I 
bear, you spoke to me of the holy life of men resigning them- 
selves to knowledge — you have given me for companions an 
ignorant and sensual herd, who have no knowledge but that of 
the grossest frauds ; — you spoke to me of men sacrificing the 
earthlier pleasures to the sublime cultivation of virtue — ^you 
place me amongst men reeking with all the filthiness of vice ; 
— ^you spoke to me of the friends, the enlighteners of our com- 
mon kind — I see but their cheats and deluders ? Oh ! it was 
basely done ! — you have robbed me of the glory of youth, of the 
convictions of virtue, of the sanctifying thirst after wisdom. 
Young as I was, rich, fervent, the sunny pleasures of earth 
before me, I resigned all without a sigh, nay, with happiness 
and exultation, in the thought that I resigned them for the 
abstruse mysteries of diviner wisdom, for the companionship 
of gods — for the revelations of Heaven — and now — now ” 

Convulsive sobs checked the priest’s voice ; he covered his 
face with his hands, and large tears forced themselves through 
the wasted fingers, and ran profusely down fcis vest. 

“ What I promised to thee, that will I give, my friend, my 
pupil : these have been but trials to thy virtue — it comes forth 
the brighter for thy novitiate, — think no more of those dull 
cheats — assort no more with those menials of the goddess, 
the atrienses* of her hall — ^you are worthy to enter into the 
penetralia. I henceforth will be your priest, your guide, and 
you who now curse my friendship shall live to bless it.” 

The young man lifted up his head and gazed with a vacant 
and wondering stare upon the Egyptian. 

“Listen to me,” continued Arbaces, in an earnest and 

* The slaves who had the care of the atrium. 


THE LAST DA KS OF POMPEII. 6x 

solemn voice, casting first his searching eyes around to see 
that they were still alone. “ From Egypt came all the knowl- 
edge of the world ; from Egypt came the lore of Athens, and 
the profound policy of Crete; from Egypt came those early 
and mysterious tribes which (long before the hordes of Romu- 
lus swept over the plains of Italy, and in the eternal cycle of 
events drove back civilization into barbarism and darkness) 
possessed all the arts of wisdom and the graces of intellectual 
hte. From Egypt came the rites and the grandeur of that 
solemn Caere, whose inhabitants taught their iron vanquishers 
of Rome all that they yet know of elevated in religion and 
sublime in worship. And how deemest thou, young man, that 
that dread Egypt, the mother of countless nations, achieved 
her greatness, and soared to her cloud-capt eminence of wis- 
dom ? — it was the result of a profound and holy policy. Your 
modern nations owe their greatness to Egypt — Egypt het 
greatness to her priests. Rapt in themselves, counting a sway 
over the nobler part of man, his soul and his belief, those ancient 
ministers of God were inspired with the grandest thought that 
ever exalted mortals. From the revolutions of the stars, from 
the seasons of the earth, from the round and unvarying circle 
of human destinies, they devised an august allegory ; they made 
it gross and palpable to the vulgar by the signs of gods and 
goddesses, and that which in reality was government they 
named Religion. Isis is a fable — start not ! — that for which Isis 
is a type is a reality, an immortal being ; Isis is nothing. Na- 
ture, which she represents, is the mother of all things— dark, 
ancient, inscrutable, save to the gifted few. ‘ None among 
mortals hath ever lifted up my veil,’ so saith the Isis that you 
adore ; but to the wise that veil hath been removed, and we have 
stood face to face with the solemn loveliness of Nature. The 
priests then were the benefactors, the civilizers of mankind, 
true, they v^ere also cheats, impostors if you will. But think 
you, young man, that if they had not deceived their kind they 
could have served them ? The ignorant and servile vulgar must 
be blinded to attain to their proper good ; they would not be- 
lieve a maxim — they revere an oracle. The Emperor of Rome 
sways the vast and various tribes of earth, and harmonizes the 
conflicting and disunited elements ; thence come peace, order, 
law, the blessings of life. Think you it is the man, the emperor, 
that thus sways ?— no, it is the pomp, the awe, the majesty that 
surround him — these are his impostures, his delusions, our 
oracles and our divinations, our rites and our ceremonies, are 
the means of our sovereignty and the engines of our power. 
They are the same means to the s^^e end, the welfare and 


THE ZAS7 DA YS OF POMPEII. 


S2 

harmony of mankind. You listen to me rapt and intent — ^the 
light begins to dawn upon you.” 

Apaecides remained silent, but the changes rapidly passii g 
over his speaking countenance betrayed the effect produced upon 
him by the words of the Egyptian — words made tenfold more 
eloquent by the voice, the aspect, and the manner of the man. 

“ While, then,” resumed Arbaces, “ our fathers of the Nile 
thus achieved the first elements by whose life chaos is destroyed, 
namely, the obedience and reverence of the multitude for the 
few, they drew from their majestic and starred meditations that 
wisdom which was no delusion : they invented the codes and 
regularities of law — the arts and glories of existence. They 
asked belief ; they returned the gift by civilization. Were not 
their very cheats a virtue ! Trust me, whosoever in yon far 
heavens of a diviner and more beneficent nature look down upon 
our world, smile approvingly on the wisdom which has worked 
such ends. But you wish me to apply these generalities to your- 
self ; I hasten to obey the wish. The altars of the goddess of 
our ancient faith must be served, and served too by others than 
the stolid and soulless things that are but as pegs and hooks 
whereon to hang the fillet and the robe. Remember two sayings 
of Sextus the P)rthagorean, sayings borrowed from the lore of 
Egypt. The first is, ‘ Speak not of God to the multitude the 
second is, * The man worthy of God is a god among men.’ As 
Genius gave to the ministers of Egypt worship, that empire 
in late ages so fearfully decayed, thus by Genius only can 
the dominion be restored. I saw in you, Apaecides, a pupil 
worthy of my lessons — a minister worthy of the great ends 
which may yet be wrought: your energy, your talents, your 
purity of faith, your earnestness of enthusiasm, all fitted you 
for that calling which demands so imperiously high and ardent 
qualities : I fanned, therefore, your sacred desires ; I stimulated 
you to the step you have taken. But you blame me that I did 
not reveal to you the little souls and the juggling tricks of your 
companions. Had I done so, Apaecides, I had defeated my own 
object : your noble nature would have at once revolted, and Isis 
would have lost her priest.” 

Apaecides groaned aloud. The Egyptian continued, without 
heeding the interruption. 

“ I placed you, therefore, without preparation, in the temple ; 
I left you suddenly to discover and to be sickened by all those 
mummeries Which dazzle the herd. I desired that you should 
perceive how those engines are moved by which the fountain 
that refreshes the world casts its waters in the air. It was the 
trial ordained of to all our priests. They who accustom them' 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


63 

selves to the impostures of the vulgar, are left to practise them; 
*-for those, like you, whose higher natures demand higher pur- 
suits, religion opens more godlike secrets. I am pleased to find 
in you the character I h^d expected. You have taken the 
vows ; you cannot reccwie. Advance — I will be your guide.” 

And what wilt thou teach me, O singular and fearful man ? 
New cheats — new ” 

“ No — I have thrown thee into the abyss of disbelief ; I 
will lead thee now to the eminence of faith. Thou hast seen 
the false types : thou shalt lear now the realities they represent 
There is no shadow, Apaecides, without its substance. Come to 
me this night. Your hand.” 

Impressed, excited, bewildered by the language of the Eg)^ 
tian, Apaecides gave him his hand, and master and pupil parted. 

It was true that for Apaecides there was no retreat. He had 
taken the vows of celibacy : he had devoted himself to a life 
that at present seemed to possess all the austerities of fanaticism, 
without any of the consolations of belief. It was natural that 
he should yet cling to a yearning desire to reconcile himself to 
an irrevocable career. The powerful and profound mind of the 
Eg>’ptian yet claimed an empire over his young imagination ; 
excited him with vague conjecture, and kept him alternately 
vibrating between hope and fear. 

Meanwhile Arbaces pursued his slow and stately way to the 
house of lone. As he entered the tablinum, he heard a voice 
from the porticos of the peristyle beyond, which, musical as it 
was, sounded displeasingly on his ear — it was the voice of the 
young and beautiful Glaucus, and for the first time an involun- 
tary thrill of jealousy shot through the breast of the Egyptian. 
On entering the peristyle, he found Glaucus seated by the side 
of lone. The fountain in the odorous garden cast up its silver 
spray in the air, and kept a delicious coolness in the midst of 
the sultry noon. The handmaids, almost invariably attendant 
on lone, who with her freedom of life preserved the most deli 
cate modesty, sat at a little distance ; by the feet of Glaucus lay 
the lyre on which he had been playing to lone one of the 
Lesbian airs. The scene — the group before Arbaces, was 
stamped by that peculiar and refined ideality of poesy which 
we yet, not erroneously, imagine to be the distinction of the 
ancients, — the marble columns, the vases of flowers, the statue, 
white and tranquil, closing every vista ; and, above all, the two 
living forms, from which a sculptor might have caught either 
inspiration or despair ! 

Arbaces, pausing for a moment, gazed on the pair with a 
Imtow from which ^ the usual stern serenity had fled; he 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


recovered himself by an effort, and slowly approached them, 
but with a step so soft and echoless, that even the attendants 
heard him not ; much less lone and her lover. 

“ And yet,” said Glaucus, “ it is only before we love that we 
imagine that our poets have truly described the passion ; the 
inst'-nt the sun rises, all the stars that had shone in his absence 
vanish into air. The poets exist only in the night of the heart , 
they are nothing to us when we feel the full glory of the god. ^ 

“ A gentle and most glowing image, noble Glaucus.” 

Both started, and recognized behind the seat of lone the 
cold and sarcastic face of the Egyptian. 

“ You are a sudden guest,” said Glaucus, rising, and with a 
forced smile. 

“ So ought all to be who know they are welcome,” returned 
Arbaces, seating himself, and motioning to Glaucus to do the 
same. 

“ I am glad,” said lone, “ to see you at length together ; for 
you are suited to each other, and you are formed to be friends.” 

“Give me back some fifteen years of life,” replied the 
Egyptian, “before you can place me on an equality with 
Glaucus. Happy should I be to receive his friendship ; but what 
can I give him in return ? Can I make to him the same con- 
fidences that he would repose in me — of banquets and garlands 
^-of Parthian steeds, and the chances of the dice ? these pleas- 
ures suit his age, his nature, his career ; they are not for mine.” 

So saying, the artful Egyptian looked down and sighed ^ but 
from the corner of his eye he stole a glance towards lone, to 
see how she received these insinuations of the pursuits of 
her visitor. Her countenance did not satisfy him. Glaucus, 
slightly coloring, hastened gayly to reply. Nor was he, per- 
haps, without the wish in his turn to disconcert and abash 
the Egyptian. 

“ You are right, wise Arbaces,” said he ; “ we can esteem 
each other, but we cannot be friends. My banquets lack the 
secret salt, which, according to rumor, gives such zest to your 
own. And, by Hercules ! when I have reached your age, if I, 
like you, may think it wise to pursue the pleasures of man- 
hood, like you, I shall be doubtless sarcastic on the gallantries 
of youth.” 

The Egyptian raised his eyes to Glaucus with a sudden and 
piercing glance. 

“ I do not understand you,” said he, coldly ; “ but it is the 
custom to consider that wit lies in obscurity.” He turned from 
Glaucus as he spoke, with a scarcely perceptible sneer of con- 
tempt, and, after a moment’s pause, addressed himself ^ Iona 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPETL 


** I have not, beautiful lone,” said he, “ been fortunate enough 
to find you within doors the last two or three times that I have 
visited your vestibule.” 

“ The smoothness of the sea has tempted me much from 
home,” replied lone, with a little embarrassment. 

The embarrassment did not escape Arbaces , but, without 
seeming to heed it, he replied with a smile : “You know the old 
poet says, that ‘ Women should keep within doors, and there 
converse.^ ” * 

“ The poet was a cynic,” said Glaucus, “ and hated women.” 

“He spake according to the customs of his country, and 
that country is your boasted Greece.” 

“To different periods different customs. Had our fore- 
fathers known lone, they had made a different law.” 

“ Did you learn these pretty gallantries at Rome ? ” said 
Arbaces, with ill-suppressed emotion. 

“One certainly would not go for gallantries to Egypt,” 
retorted Glaucus, playing carelessly with his chain. 

“ Come, come,” said lone, hastening to interrupt a conver- 
sation which she saw, to her great distress, was so little likely 
to cement the intimacy she had desired to effect between 
Glaucus and her friend, “ Arbaces must not be so hard upon 
his poor pupil. An orphan, and without a mother’s care, I may 
be to blame for the independent and almost masculine liberty 
of life that I have chosen : yet it is not greater than the Roman 
women are accustomed to — it is not greater than the Grecian 
ought to be. Alas ! is it only to be among men that free- 
dom and virtue are to be deemed united ? Why should the 
slavery that destroys you be considered the only method to 
preserve us ? Ah ! believe me, it has been the great error of 
men — and one that has worked bitterly on their destinies — ^to 
imagine that the nature of women is (I will not say inferior, that 
may be so, but) so different from their own, in making laws un- 
favorable to the intellectual advancement of women. Have 
they not, in so doing, made laws against their children whom 
women are to rear ? — against the husbands, of whom women are 
to be the friends, nay, sometimes the advisers .? ” lone stopped 
short suddenly, and her face was suffused with the most em 
chanting blushes. She feared lest her enthusiasm had led her 
too far : yet she feared the austere Arbaces less than the cour- 
teous Glaucus, for she loved the last, and it was not the custom 
of the Greeks to allow their women (at least such of their 
women as they most honored) the same liberty and the sam« 


* Euripides. 


66 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


Station as those of Italy enjoyed. She felt, therefore, a thrill of 
delight as Glaucus earnestly replied, — 

“ Ever mayst thou think thus, lone — ever be your pure heart 
your unerring guide ! Happy it had been for Greece if she had 
given to the chaste the same intellectual charms that are so 
celebrated amongst the less worthy of her women. No state 
falls from freedom — from knowledge, while your sex smile only 
on the free, and by appreciating, encourage the wise.” 

Arbaces was silent, for it was neither his part to sanction 
the sentiment of Glaucus, nor to condemn that of lone ; and, 
after a short and embarrassed conversation, Glaucus took his 
leave of lone. 

When he was gone, Arbaces, drawing his seat nearer to the 
fair Neapolitan’s, said in those bland and subdued tones, in 
which he knew so well how to veil the mingled art and fierce-- 
ness of his character, — 

“ Think not, my sweet pupil, if so I may call you, that I 
wish to shackle that liberty you adorn while you assume : but 
which, if not greater, as you rightly observe, than that pos- 
sessed by the Roman women, must at least be accompanied by 
great circumspection, when arrogated by one unmarried. Con- 
tinue to draw crowds of the gay, the brilliant, the wise them- 
selves, to your feet — continue to charm them with the conversa- 
tion of an Aspasia, the music of an Erinna — but reflect, at 
least, on those censorious tongues which can so easily blight 
the tende*' reputation of a maiden ; and while you provoke ad 
miration, give, I beseech you, no victory envy '' 

“ What mean you, Arbaces ? ” said lone, in an alarmed and 
trembling voice : “ I know you are my friend, that you desire 
only my honor and my welfare. What is it you would say ? ” 

“ Y our friend — ah, how sincerely ! May I speak then as a 
friend, without reserve and without offence ? ” 

“ I beseech you do so.” 

“ This young profligate, this Glaucus, how didst thou know 
him ? Hast thou seen him often ? ” And as Arbaces spoke, he 
fixed his gaze steadfastly upon lone, as if he sought to pene- 
trate into her soul. 

Recoi ing before that gaze, with a strange fear which she 
could not explain, the Neapolitan answered with confusion and 
hesitation — “ He was brought to my house as a countryman of 
mjr father’s, and I may say of mine. I have known him only 
within this last week or so : but why these questions / ” 

“ Forgive me,” said Arbaces ; “ I thought you might have 
known him longer. Base insinuator that he is ! ” 

“ Hovf 1 whit mean you ? Why that term ? ” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 

“ It matters not : let me not rouse youi indignation against 
one who does not deserve so grave an honor.” 

“ I implore you speak. What has Glaucus insinuated ? or 
rather, in what do you suppose he has offended ? ” 

Smothering his resentment at the last part of lone’s ques* 
tion, Arbaces continued — “ You know his pursuits, his com- 
panions, his habits ; the comissatio and the alea (the revel and 
the dice) make his occupation ; — and amongst the associates of 
vice, how can he dream of virtue ? ” 

“ Still you speak riddles. By the gods 1 I entreat you, say 
the worst at once.” 

“ Well, then, it must be so. Know, my lone, that it was 
but yesterday that Glaucus boasted openly — yes, in the public 
baths, of your love to him. He said it amused him to take 
advantage of it. Nay, I will do him justice, he praised your 
beauty. Who could deny it ? But he laughed scornfully when 
his Clodius, or his Lepidus, asked him if he loved you enough 
for marriage, and when he purposed to adorn his door-posts 
with flowers ? ” 

“ Impossible ! How heard you this base slander ? ” 

“Nay, would you have me to relate to you all the comments 
of the insolent coxcombs with which the story has circled 
through the town ? Be assured that I myself disbelieved at 
first, and that I have now painfully been convinced by several 
ear-witnesses of the truth of what I have reluctantly told thee.” 

lone sank back, and her face was whiter than the pillar 
against which she leaned for support. 

“ I own it vexed — It irritated me, to hear your name thus 
lightly pitched from lip to lip, like some mere dancing-girl’s 
fame. I hastened this morning to seek and to warn you. I 
found Glaucus here. I was stung from my self-possession. I 
could not conceal my feelings ; nay, I was uncourteous in thy 
presence. Canst thou forgive thy friend, lone ? ” 
lone placed her hand in his, but replied not. 

“ Think no more of this,” said he ; “but let it be a warn- 
ing voice, to tell thee how much prudence thy lot requires. It 
cannot hurt thee, lone, for a moment ; for a gay thing like this 
could never be honored by even a serious thought from lone. 
These insults only wound when they come from one we love ; 
far different is he indeed whom the lofty lone shall stoop to 
love.” 

“ Love ! ” muttered lone, with an hysterical laugh. “ Ay, 
indeed.” 

It is not without interest to observe in those remote times, 
and under a social system so videly different from the modem, 


68 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


the same small causes that ruffle and interrupt the course of 
love,” which operate so commonly at this day ; — the same in- 
ventive jealousy, the same cunning slander, the same crafty 
and fabricated retailings of petty gossip, which so often now 
suffice to break the ties of the truest love, and counteract the 
tenor of circumstances most apparently propitious. When the 
bark sails on over the smoothest wave, the fable tells us of the 
diminutive fish that can cling to the keel and arrest its prog- 
ress : so is it ever with the great passions of mankind ; and 
we should paint life but ill, if, even in times the most prodigal 
of romance, and of the romance of which we most largely avail 
ourselves, we did not also describe the mechanism of those 
trivial and household springs of mischief which we see every 
day at work in our chambers and at our hearths. It is in these, 
the lesser intrigues of life, that we mostly find ourselves at home 
with the past. 

Most cunningly had the Egyptian appealed to lone’s ruling 
foible — most dexterously had he applied the poisoned dart to 
her pride. He fancied he had arrested what he hoped, from 
the shortness of the time she had known Glaucus, was, at most, 
but an incipient fancy ; and hastening to change the subject, 
he now led her to talk of her brother. Their conversation did 
not last long. He left her, resolved not again to trust so much 
to absence, but to visit — to watch her — every day. 

No sooner had his shadow glided from her presence, than 
woman’s pride — her sex’s dissimulation — deserted his intended 
victim, and the haughty lone burst into passionate tears. . 


CHAPTER VII. 

The gay life of the Pompeian lounger. — A miniature likeness of the 
Roman baths. 

When Glaucus left lone, he felt as if he trod upon air. In 
the interview with which he had just been blessed, he had for 
the first time gathered from her distinctly that his love was not 
unwelcome to, and would not be unrewarded by, her. This 
hope filled him with a rapture for which earth and heaven 
seemed too narrow to afford a vent. Unconscious of the sudden 
enemy he had left behind, and forgetting not only his taunts 
but his very existence, Glaucus passed through the gay streets, 
repeating to himself, in the wantonness of joy, the music of the 
soft air to which lone had listened with such intentness ; and 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPETL 


69 

now he entered the Street of Fortune, with its raised footoath 
— its houses painted without, and the open doors admitting the 
view of the glowing frescoes within. Each end of the street 
was adorned with a triumphal arch ; and as Glaucus now came 
before the Temple of Fortune, the jutting portico of that beau- 
tiful fane (which is supposed to have been built by one of the 
family of Cicero, perhaps by the orator himself) imparted a 
dignified and venerable feature to a scene otherwise more bril- 
liant than lofty in its character. That temple was one of the 
most graceful specimens of Roman architecture. It was raised 
on a somewhat lofty podium ; and between two flights of steps 
ascending to a platform stood the altar of the goddess. From 
this platform another flight of broad stairs led to the portico, 
from the height of whose fluted columns hung festoons of the 
richest flowers. On either side the extremities of the temple 
were placed statues of Grecian workmanship ; and at a little 
distance from the temple rose the triumphal arch crowned with 
an equestrian statue of Caligula, which was flanked by trophies 
of bronze. In the space before the temple a lively throng 
were assembled — some seated on benches and discussing the 
politics of the empire, some conversing on the approaching 
spectacle of the amphitheatre. One knot of young men were 
lauding a new beauty, another discussing the merits of the 
last play ; a third group, more stricken in age, were speculating 
on the chance of the trade with Alexandria, and amidst these 
were many merchants in the Eastern costume, whose loose and 
peculiar robes, painted and gemmed slippers, and composed and 
serious countenances, formed a striking contrast to the tunicked 
forms and animated gestures of the Italians. For that impatient 
and lively people had, as now, a language distinct from speech 
— a language of signs and motions inexpressibly significant and 
vivacious : their descendants retain it, and the learned Jorio 
hath written a most entertaining work upon that species of 
hieroglyphical gesticulation. 

Sauntering through the crowd, Glaucus soon found himself 
amidst a group of his merry and dissipated friends. 

“ Ah ! ” said Sallust, “ it is a lustrum since I saw you.” 

“ And how have you spent the lustrum ? What new dishes 
have you discovered ? ” 

“ I have been scientific,” returned Sallust, “ and have made 
some experiments in the feeding of lampreys ; I confess I de- 
spair of bringing them to the perfection which our Roman ances- 
tors attained.” 

“ Miserable man ! and why ^ ” 

“ Because, returned SaUust, with a sigh, “ it is no longer 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


TO 

lawful to give them a slave to eat. I am very often tempted 
to make away with a very fat carptor (butler) whom I possess, 
and pop him slyly into a reservoir. He would give the fish a 
most oleaginous flavor ! But slaves are not slaves nowadays, 
and have no sympathy with their masters^ interest — or Davus 
would destroy himself to oblige me ! ” 

“ What news from Rome ? ” said Lepidus as he languidly 
joined the group. 

“ The emperor has been giving a splendid supper to the 
bunators,’’ answered Sallust. 

“ He is a good creature,” quoth Lepidus ; “ they say he never 
sends a man away without granting his request.” 

“ Perhaps he would let me kill a slave for my reservoir ? ** 
returned Sallust, eagerly. 

“Not unlikely,” said Glaucus ; “for he who grants a favor 
to one Roman, must always do it at the expense of another. 
Be sure, that for every smile Titus has caused, a hundred eyes 
have w'ept.” 

“ Long live Titus ! ” cried Pansa, overhearing the emperor’s 
name, as he swept patronizingly through the crowd ; “ he has 
promised my brother a quaestorship, because he had run through 
his fortune.” 

“ And wishes now to enrich himself among the people, my 
Pansa,” said Glaucus. 

“ Exactly so,” said Pansa. 

“ That is putting the people to some use,” said Glaucus. 

“ 1*0 be sure,” returned Pansa. “ Well, I must go and look 
after the aerarium — it is a little out of repair ; ” and followed by 
a long train of clients, distingi ‘shed from th^ rest of the throng 
by the togas they wore (for togas, once ""he sign of freedom in a 
citizen, were now the badge of servility to a patron), the agdile 
fidgeted fussily away. 

“ Poor Pansa ! ” said I.epidus : “ he never has time for pleas- 
ure. Thank Heaven I am not aedile 1 ” 

“ Ah, Glaucus ! how are you ? gay as ever ! ” said Clodius, 
joining the group. 

“ Are you come to sacrifice to fortune ? ” said Sallust. 

“ I sacrifice to her every night,” returned the gamester. 

“ I do not doubt it. No man has made m re victims !” 

“ By Hercules, a biting speech ! ” cried Glaucus, laughing, 

“ The dog’s letter is never out of your mouth, Sallust,” said 
Clodius, angrily : “you are always snarling.” 

“ I may well have the dog’s letter in my mouth, since, when* 
ever I play with you, I have the dog’s throw in my hand,” r& 
turned Sallust 


Tim LAST DA ys OF POMPEIL 


71 

“ Hist ! ” said G!aucus, taking a rose from a flower-girl, who 
stood beside. 

“ The rose is the token of silence,'^ replied Sallust , “ but I 
love only to see it at the supper-table.” 

^ “Talking of that, Diomed gives a grand feast next week,** 
said Sallust : “ are you invited, Glaucus ? ” 

“ Yes, I received an invitation this morning.” 

“ And I, too,” said Sallust, drawing a square piece of papyw 
rus from his girdle : “ I see that he asks us an hour earlier than 
usual : an earnest of something sumptuous.” * 

“ Oh ! he is rich as Croesus,” said Clodius ; “ and his bill of 
fare is as long as an epic.” 

“ Well, let us to the baths,” said Glaucus : “ this is the time 
when all the world is there ; and Fulvius, whom you admire so 
much, is going to read us his last ode.” 

The young men assented readily to the proposal, and they 
strolled to the baths. 

Although the public thermae, or baths, were instituted rather 
for the poorer citizens than the wealthy (for the last had baths 
in their own houses), yet, to the crowds of all ranks who re- 
sorted to them, it was a favorite place for conversation, and for 
that indolent lounging so dear to a gay and thoughtless people. 
The baths at Pompeii differed, of course, in plan and construc- 
tion from the vast and complicated thermae of Rome ; and, in- 
deed, it seems that in each city of the empire there was always 
some slight modification of arrangement in the general archi- 
tecture of the public baths. This mightily puzzles the learned, 
— as if architects and fashion were not capricious before the 
nineteenth century I Our party entered by the principal porch 
in the Street of Fortune. At the wing of the portico sat the 
keeper of the baths, with his two boxes before him, one for the 
money he received, one for the tickets he dispe.*sed. Round 
the walls of the portico were seats crowded wi ’i persons of all 
ranks ; while others, as therejyimen of th'' physic a^s prescribed, 
were walking briskly to and fr». the portic , stopping every now 
and then to gaze on the innumerabl notices o^ sh ws, games, 
sa’es, exhibitions, which were ^aintrd r i sc b d upon the 
walls. Tht general subj xt of con ersati'n wa% however, the 
spectacle announced in the amphitheati.; : ai ^ ca''h newc'm'^r 
was fastened upon by a group eager t-^ kno'^' Por peii had 
been so fortunate as to produce some monstrous criminal, some 


♦The Romans sent tickets of invitation, like th« m d-ms, specifying 
ehe hour of the repast j which, if the intended feast was to be s -cntu uS, was 
earlier than usuaL 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


72 

happy case of sacrilege or of murder, which would allow thci 
sediles to provide a man for the jaws of the lion : all other more 
common exhibitions seemed dull and tame, when compared 
with the possibility of this fortunate occurrence. 

“ For my part,” said one jolly-looking man, who was a gold- 
smith, “ I think the Emperor, if he is as good as they say, might 
have sent us a Jew.” 

“ Why not take one of the new sect of Nazarenes ? ” said a 
philosopher. “ I am not cruel : but an atheist, one who denies 
Jupiter himself, deserves no mercy.” 

“ I care not how many gods a man likes to believe in,” 
said the goldsmith ; “ but to deny all gods is something mon- 
strous.” 

“ Yet I fancy,” said Glaucus, “ that these people are not 
absolutely atheists. I am told that they believe in God — nay, 
in a future state.” 

“ Quite a mistake, my dear Glaucus,” said the philosopher, 
“ I have conferred with them — they laugh in my face when I 
talk of Pluto and Hades.” 

“ O ye gods ! ” exclaimed the goldsmith, in horror ; are 
there any of these wretches in Pompeii ? ” 

** I know there are a few : but they meet so privately that 
it is impossible to discover who they are.” 

As Glaucus turned away, a sculptor, who was a great enthu- 
siast in his art, looked after him admiringly. 

" Ah I ” said he, “ if we could get him on the arena — ^there 
would be a model for you 1 What limbs I what a head ! he ought 
to have been a gladiator ! A subject — a subject — worthy of 
our art ! Why don’t they give him to the lion ? ” 

Meanwhile Fulvius, the Roman poet, whom his contempo- 
raries declared immortal, and who, but for this history, would 
never have been heard of in our neglectful age, came eagerly 
up to Glaucus : Oh, my Athenian, my Glaucus, you have come 
to hear my ode I That is indeed an honor ; you, a Greek — to 
whom the very language of common life is poetry. How I 
thank you I It is but a trifle ; but i£. I secure your approbation, 
perhaps I may get an introduction to Titus. Oh, Glaucus ! a 
poet without a patron is an amphora without a label ; the wine 
may be good, but nobody will laud it ! And what says Py- 
thagoras ? — ‘ Frankincense to the gods, but praise to man ’ A 
patron then, is the poet’s priest : he procures him the incense, 
and obtains him his believers.” 

“ But all Pompeii is your patron, and every portico an altai 
in your praise.” 

“Ah I the poor Pompeians are very civil — they love to 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


73 

honor merit. But they are only the inhabitants of a petty town 
•^spero meliora / Shall we within ? 

“ Certainly ; we lose time till we hear your poem.” 

At this instant there was a rush of some twenty persons 
from the baths into the portico : and a slave stationed at the 
door of a small corridor now admitted the poet, Giaucus. 
Clodius, and a troop of the b^’^d’s other friends, into the pas- 
sage. 

^ “ A poor place this, compared with tne Roman thermae 1 ” 
said Lepidus, disdainfully. 

“ Yet is there some taste in the ceiling,” said Glaucus, who 
was in a mood to be pleased with everything ; pointing to the 
stars w’hich studded the roof. 

Lepidus shrugged his shoulders, but was too languid to 
reply. 

They now entered a somewhat spacious chamber, which 
served for the purpose of the apoditeriun^ (that is, a place 
where the bathers prepared themselves for their luxurious ablu- 
tions). The vaulted ceiling was raised from a cornice, glow- 
ingly colored with motley and grotesque paintings ; the ceiling 
itseh was panelled in white compartments bordered with rich 
crimson ; the unsullied and shining floor was paved with white 
mosaics, and along the walls were ranged benches for the ac- 
commodation of the loiterers. This chamber did not possess 
the numerous and spacious windows which Vitruvius attributes 
to his more magnificent frigidarium. The Pompeians, as all 
the southern Italians, were fond of banishing the light of their 
sultry skies, and combined in their voluptuous associations the 
idea of luxury with darkness. Two windows of glass * alone 
admitted the soft and shaded ray ; and the compartment ia 
which one of these casements was placed was adorned with 
a large relief of the destruction of the Titans. 

In this apartment Fulvius seated himself with a magisterial 
air, and his audience gathering round him encouraged him to 
commence his recital. 

The poet did not require much pressing. He drew forth 
from his vest a roll of papyrus, and after hemming three times, 
as much to command silence as to clear his voice, he began 
that wonderful ode, of which, to the great mortification of the 
author of this history, no single verse can be discovered. 

By the plaudits he received, it was doubtless worthy of his 

♦The discoveries at Pompeii have controverted the long-established 
error of the antiquaries, that glass windows were unknown to the Roman* 
—the use of them was not, however, common among the middle and hi- 
^^or classes in their private dwellings. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


74 

fame , and Glaucus was the only listener who did not find it 
excel the best odes of Horace. 

The poem concluded, those who took only the cold bath 
began to undress ; they suspended their garments on hooks 
fastened in the wall, and receiving, according to their condition, 
either from their own slaves or those of the thermae, loose robes 
in exchange, withdrew into that graceful and circular building 
which yet exists, to shame the unlaving posterity of the south. 

The more luxurious departed by another door to the tepi- 
darium, a place which was heated to a voluptuous warmth, 
partly by a movable fire-place, principally by a suspended pave- 
meLt, beneath which was conducted the caloric of the laconi- 
cum. 

Here this portion of the intended bathers, after unrobing 
themselves, remained for some time enjoying the artificial 
warmth of the luxurious air. And this room, as befitted its im- 
portant rank in the long process of ablution, was more richly 
and elaborately decorated than the rest ; the arched roof was 
beautifully carved and painted ; the windows above, of ground 
glass, admitted but wandering and uncertain rays ; below the 
massive cornices were rows of figures in massive and bold re- 
lief ; the walls glowed with crimson, the pavement was skilfully 
tessellated in white mosaics. Here the habituated bathers, men 
who bathed seven times a day. would remain in a state of ener- 
vate and speechless lassitude, either before or (mostly) after the 
water-bath ; and many of these victims of the pursuit of health 
turned their listless eyes on the new-comers, recognizing their 
friends with a nod, but dreading the fatigue of conversation. 

From this place the party again diverged, according to their 
several fancies, some to the sudatorium, which answered the 
purpose of our vapor-baths, and thence to the warm-bath itself ; 
those more accustomed to exercise, and capable of dispensing 
with so cheap a purchase of fatigue, resorted at once to the cali- 
darium, or water-bath. 

In order to complete this sketch, and give to the reader an 
adequate notion of this, the main luxury of the ancients, we will 
accompany Lepidus, who regularly underwent the whole pro- 
cess, save only the cold-bath, which had gone lately out of fash- 
ion. Being then gradually warmed in the tepidarium, which 
has just been described, the delicate steps of the Pompeian 
kltgant were conducted to the sudatorium. Here let the reader 
depict to himself the gradual process of the vapor- bath, accom- 
panied by an exhalation of spicy perfumes. After our bather 
iiad undergone this operation, he was seized by his slaves, wha 
always awaited him at the baths, and the dews of heat wer"^ rfr 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


75 

moved by a kind of scraper, which (by the way) a modem traw 
cller has gravely declared to be used only to remove the dirt, 
hot one particle of which could ever settle on the polished skin 
of the practised bather. Thence, somewhat ^oled, he passed 
into the water-bath, over which fresh perfumes were profusely 
scattered, and on emerging from the opposite part of the room, 
a cooling shower played over his head and form. Then wrap- 
ping himself in a light robe, he returned ^nce more to the tepi- 
darium, >vhere he found Glaucus, who had not encountered the 
sudatorium ; and now, the main delight and extravagance of 
the bath commenced. Their slaves anointed the bathers from 
the vials of gold, of alabaster, or of crystal, studded with pro* 
fusest gems, and containing the rarest unguents gathered from 
all quarters of the world. The number of these smegmata used 
by the wealthy would fill a modern volume — especially if the 
volume were printed by a fashionable publisher ; Amoracitmnty 
Megaliunty Nardum — otnne quod exit in um ; — while soft music 
played in an adjacent chamber, and such as used tlie bath in 
moderation, refreshed and restored by the grateful ceremony, 
conversed with all the zest and freshness of rejuvenated life. 

“ Blessed be he who invented baths ! ” said Glaucus, stretch- 
ing himself along one of those bronze seats (then covered with 
soft cushions) which the visitor to Pompeii sees at this day in 
that same tepidarium. “ Whether he were Hercules or Bacchus, 
he deserved deification.” 

“ But tell me,” said a corpulent citizen, who was groaning 
and wheezing under the operation of being rubbed down, “ tell me, 
O Glaucus ! — evil chance to thy hands, O slave ! why so rough ? 
— tell me t — ugh — ugh ! — are the baths at Rome really so mag- 
nificent ? ” Glaucus turned, and recognized Diomed, though not 
without some difficulty, so red and so inflamed were the good 
man’s cheeks by the sudatory and the scraping he had so lately 
undergone. I fancy they must be a great deal finer than these. 
Eh ? ” Suppressing a smile, Glaucus replied — 

“ Imagine all Pompeii converted into baths, and you will 
then form a notion of the size of the imperial thermae of Rome. 
But a notion of the size only. Imagine every entertainment for 
mind and body — enumerate all the gymnastic games our fathers 
invented — repeat all the books Italy and Greece have produced 
■ — suppose places for all these games, admirers for all these works 
— add to this, baths of the vastest size, the most complicated 
construction — intersperse the whole with gardens, with theatres, 
with porticoes, with schools — suppose in one word a city of the 
gods, composed but of palaces and public edifices, and you mav 
form some faint idea of the glories of the great baths of Rome." 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPETL 


By Hercules ! ” said Diomed, opening his eyes, ** why it 
flvould take a man’s whole life to bathe ! ” 

“ At Rome, it often does so,” replied Glaucus, gravely. 
^ There are many who live only at the baths. They repair thera 
the first hour in which the doors are opened, and remain till that 
in which the doors are closed. They seem as if they knew noth- 
ing of the rest of Rome, as if they despised all other existence.’* 

“ By Pollux ! you amaze me.” 

“ Even those who bathe only thrice a day contrive to con- 
sume their lives in this occupation. They take their exercise in 
the tennis-court or the porticoes, to prepare them for the first 
bath ; they lounge into the theatre, to refresh themselves after 
it. They take their prandium under the trees, and think over 
their second bath. By the time it is prepared, the prandium is 
digested. From the second bath they stroll into one of the 
peristyles, to hear some new poet recite ; or into the library, to 
sleep over an old one. Then comes the supper, which they still 
consider but a part of the bath ; and then a third time they bathe 
again, as the best place to converse with their friends.” 

“ Per Hercle ! but we have their imitators at Pompeii.” 

“Yes, and without their excuse. The magnificent volup< 
tuaries of the Roman baths are happy ; they see nothing but 
gorgeousness and splendor ; they visit not the squalid parts of 
the city ; they know not that there is poverty in the world. All 
Nature smiles for them, and her only frown is the last one which 
sends them to bathe in Cocytus. Believe me, they are your only 
true philosophers.” 

While Glaucus was thus conversing, Lepidus, with closed 
eyes and scarce perceptible breath, was undergoing all the mystic 
operations, not one of which he ever suffered his attendants to 
omit. After the perfumes and the unguents, they scattered over 
him the luxurious powder which prevented any farther accession 
of heat ; and this being rubbed away by the smooth surface of 
the pumice, he began to indue, not the garments he had put off, 
but those more festive ones termed the “ synthesis,” with which 
the Romans marked their respect for the coming ceremony of 
supper, if rather, from its hour (three o’clock in our measure- 
ment of time), it might not be more fitly denominated dinner. 
This done, he at length opened his eyes and gave signs of return- 
ing life. 

At the same time, too, Sallust betokened by a long yawn tiie 
evidence of existence. 

“ It is supper-time,” said the epicure ; “ you, Glaucus and 
Lepidus, come and sup with me.” 

“ Recollect you are all three engaged to my house next week,** 


THE LAST DA YS Ol* POMPEIL 

cried Diomed, who was mightily proud of the acquaintance of 
men of fashion. 

“ Ah, ah ! we recollect,” said Sallust : “ the seat of memory, 
my Diomed, is certainly in the stomach.” 

Passing now once again into, the cooler air, and so into the 
street, our gallants of that day concluded the ceremony of a 
PompeiaPk bath. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Arbaces cogs his dice with pleasure, and wins the game. 

The evening darkened over the restless city, as Apsecides 
took his way to the house of the Egyptian. He avoided the more 
lighted and populous streets ; and as he strode onward with his 
head buried in his bosom, and his arms folded within his robe, 
there was something startling in the contrast, which his solemn 
mien and wasted ^orm presented to the thoughtless brows and 
animated air of those who occasionally crossed his path. 

At length, however, a man of a more sober and staid de- 
meanor, and who had twice passed him with a curious but 
doubting look, touched him on the shoulder. 

“ Apaecides ! ” said he, and he made a rapid sign with his 
hands : it was the sign of the cross. 

“Well, Nazarene,” replied the priest, and his face grew 
paler : “ what wouldst thou ? ” 

“Nay,” returned the stranger, “I would not interrupt 
thy meditations ; but the last time we met, I seemed not to be 
so unwelcome.” 

“You are not unwelcome, Olinthus; but I am sad and 
weary : nor am I able tliis evening to discuss with you those 
themes which are most acceptable to you.” 

“ O backward of heart ! ” said Olinthus, with bitter fervor ; 
“and art thou sad and weary, and wilt thou turn from the 
very springs that refresh and heal ? ” 

“ O earth ! ” cried the young priest, striking his breast pas- 
sionately, “ from what regions shall my eyes open to the true 
Olympus, where thy gods really dwell t Am I to believe with 
this man, that none whom for so many centuries my fathers 
worshipped have a being or a name ? Am I to break down, as 
something blasphemous and profane, the very altars which I 
have deemed most sacred ? or am I to think with Arbaces— 
what?” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


78 

He paused, and strode rapidly away in the impatience of a 
man who strives to get rid of himself. But the Nazarene was 
one of those hardy, vigorous, and enthusiastic men, by whom 
God in all times has worked the revolutions of earth, and 
those, above all, in the establishment and in the reformation 
of His own religion ; — men who were formed to convert, be- 
cause formed to endure. It is men of this mould whom nothr 
ing discourages, nothing dismays ; in the fervor of belief they 
are inspired and they inspire. Their reason first kindles their 
passion, but the passion is the instrument they use ; they forced 
themselves into men’s hearts, while they appear only to appeal 
to their judgment. Nothing is so contagious as enthusiasm ; 
it is the real allegory of the tale of Orpheus — it moves stones, 
it charms brutes. Enthusiasm is the genius of sincerity, and 
truth accomplishes no victories without it. 

Olinthus did not then suffer Apaecides thus easily to escape 
him. He overtook, and addressed him thus : — 

“ I do not wonder, Apaecides, that I distress you ; that 1 
shake all the elements of your mind ; that you are lost in 
doubt ; that you drift here and there in the vast ocean of un- 
certain and benighted thought. I wonder not at this, but beat 
with me a little ; watch and pray, — the darkness shall vanish, 
the storm sleep, and God himself, as He came of yore on the 
seas of Samaria, shall walk over the lulled billows, to the de- 
livery of your soul. Ours is a religion jealous in its demands, 
but how infinitely prodigal in its gifts I It troubles you for an 
hour it repays you by immortality.” 

“ Such promises,” said Apaecides, sullenly, “ are the tricks 
by which man is ever gulled. Oh, glorious were the promises 
which led me to the shrine of Isis I ” 

“ But,” answered the Nazarene, “ask thy reason, can that 
religion be sound which outrages all morality ? You are told 
to worship your gods. What are those gods, even according 
to yourselves ? What their actions, what their attributes ? Are 
they not all represented to you as the blackest of criminals ? 
yet you are asked to serve them as the holiest of divinities. 
Jupiter himself is a parricide and an adulterer. What are the 
meaner deities but imitators of his vices ? You are told not to 
murder, but you worship murderers ; you are told not to commit 
adultery, and you make your prayers to an adulterer. Oh I 
what is this but a mockery of the holiest part of man’s nature, 
which is faith ? Turn now to the God, the one, the true God, to 
whose shrine I would lead you. If He seem to you too sub- 
lime, too shadowy, for those human associations, those touch- 
ing connections between Creator and creature, to which the 


THE LAST DA YS OF FOMPEIL 


79 

weak heart clings — conxemplate Him in his Son, who put on 
mortality like ourselves. His mortality is not indeed declaied, 
hke that of your fabled gods, by the vices of our natuie, but by 
the practice of all its virtues. In Him are united the austerest 
morals v/ith the tenderest affections. If He were but a mere 
man. He had been vrorthy to become a god. You honor So- 
crates — he has his sect, his disciples, his schools. But what 
are the doubtful virtues of the Athenian, to the bright, the un- 
disputed, the active, the unceasing, the devoted holiness of 
Christ? I speak to you now only of His human character. 
He came in that as the pattern of future ages, to show us the 
form of virtue which Plato thirsted to see embodied. This 
was the true sacrifice that He made for man , but the halo that 
encircled His dying hour not only brightened earth, but opened 
to us the sight of heaven ? You are touched — you are moved. 
God works in your heart. His spirit is with you. Come, re- 
sist not the holy impulse : come at once — unhesitatingly. A 
few of us are now assembled to expound the word of God. 
Come, let me guide you to them. You are sad, you are weary. 
Listen, then, to the words of God ; — * Come to me,’ saith He, 
‘ all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest / ’ 

“ I cannot now,” said Apaecides ; “ another time.” 

“ Now — now 1 ” exclaimed Olinthus, earnestly, and clasp- 
ing him by the arm. 

But Apaecides, yet unprepared for the renunciation of that 
faith — that life, foi which he had sacrificed so much, and still 
haunted by the promises of the Egyptian, extricated himself 
forcibly from the grasp , and feeling an effort necessary to con- 
quer the irresolution which the eloquence of the Christian had 
begun to effect in his heated and feverish mind, he gathered 
up his robes, and fled away with a speed that defied pursuit 
Breathless, and exhausted, he arrived at last in a remote 
and sequestered part of the city, and the lone house of the 
Egyptian stood before him. As he paused to recover himself, 
the moon emerged from a silver cloud, and shone full upon the 
walls of that mysterious habitation. 

No other house was near — the darksome vines clustered 
far and wide in front of the building, and behind it rose a 
copse of lofty forest trees, sleeping in the melancholy moon- 
light ; beyond stretched the dim outline of the distant hills, 
and amongst them the quiet crest of Vesuvius, not then so lofty 
as the traveller beholds it now. 

Apaecides passed through the arching vines, and arrived at 
the broad and spacious portico. Before it, on either side ol 
the steps, reposed the image of the Egyptian sphinx, and th« 


5o 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 


moonlight gave an additional and yet more solemn calm to 
those large, and harmonious, and passionless features, in which 
the sculptors of that type of wisdom united so much of loveli- 
ness with awe ; half way up tne extremities of the steps dark- 
ened the green and massive foliage of the aloe, and the shadow 
of the eastern palm cast its long and unwavering boughs par- 
tially over the marble surface of the stairs. 

Something there was in the stillness of the place, and the 
strange aspect of the sculptured sphinxes, which thrilled the 
blood of the priest with a nameless and ghostly fear, and he 
longed even for an echo to his noiseless steps as he ascended 
to the threshold. 

He knocked at the door, over which was wrought an in- 
scription in characters unfamiliar to his eyes ; it opened with- 
out a sound, and a tall Ethiopian slave without question or 
salutation motioned to him to proceed. 

The wide hall was lighted by lofty candelabra of elaborate 
bronze, and round the walls were wrought vast hieroglyphics, 
in dark and solemn colors, which contrasted strangely with 
the bright hues and graceful shapes with which the inhab- 
itants of Italy decorated their abodes. At the extremity of the 
hall, a slave, whose countenance, though not African, was 
darker by many shades than the usual color of the south, ad- 
vanced to meet him. 

“ I seek Arbaces,’’ said the priest ; but his voice trembled 
even in his own ear. The slave bowed his head in silence, and 
Lading Apaecides to a wing without the hall, conducting him 
up a narrow staircase, and then traversing several rooms, in 
which the stern and thoughtful beauty of the sphinx still 
made the chief and most impressive object of the priest’s no- 
tice, Apaecides found himself in a dim and half-lighted chamber, 
in the presence of the Eg)q>tian. 

Arbaces was seated before a small table, on which lay un- 
folded several scrolls of papyrus, impressed with the same 
character as that on the threshold of the mansion. A small 
tripod stood at a little distance, from the i. cense in which 
the smoke slowly rose. Near this was a v-^ t globe, depicting 
the signs of heaven ; and upon another tabl ' lay several in- 
struments, of curious and quaint shape, whose uses were un- 
known to Apaecides. The farther extremity of the room was 
concealed by a curtain, and the oblong window in the roof 
admitted the rays of the moon, mingling sadly with the single 
lamp which burned in the apartment. 

“ Seat yourself, Apaecides,” said the Egyptian, without 
rising. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 




The young man obeyed. 

“ You ask me,” resumed Arbaces, after a short pause, in 
which he seemed absorbed in thought, — “ You ask me, oi 
would do so, the mightiest secrets which the soul of man is 
fitted to receive ; it is the enigma of life itself that you desire 
me to solve. Placed like children in the dark, and but for a 
little while, in this dim and confined existence, we shape out 
spectres in the obscurity ; our thoughts now sink back into 
ourselves in terror, now wildly plunge themselves into the 
guideless gloom, guessing what it may contain ; — stretching our 
helpless hands here and there, lest, blindly, we stumble upon 
some hidden danger ; not knowing the limits of our boundary, 
now feeling them suffocate us with compression, now seeing 
them extend far away till they vanish into eternity. In this 
state, all wisdom consists necessarily in the solution of two 
questions — ‘ What are we to believe ? and What are we to 
reject ? * These questions you desire me to decide ? ” 

Apaecides bowed his head in assent. 

Man must have some belief,” continued the Egyptian, in 
a tone of sadness. “ He must fasten his hopes to something : 
it is our common nature that you inherit when, aghast and 
terrified to see that in which you have been taught to place your 
faith swept away, you float over a dreary and shoreless sea of 
incertitude, you cry for help, you ask for some plank to cling 
to, some land, however dim and distant, to attain. Well, then, 
listen. You have not forgotten our conversation of to-day?” 

“ Forgotten ! ” 

“ I confessed to you that those deities for whom smoke so 
many altars were but inventions. I confessed to you that our 
rites and ceremonies were but mummeries, to delude and lure 
the herd to their proper good. I explained to you that from 
those delusions came the bonds of society, the harmony of the 
world, the power of the wise ; that power is in the obedience of 
the vulgar. Continue we then these salutary delusions — if man 
must have some belief, continue to him that which his fathers 
have made dear to him, and which custom sanctifies and 
strengthens. In seeking a subtler faith for us, whose senses 
are tor spiritual for the gross one, let us leave others that 
support which crumbles from ourselves. This is wise — it is 
benevolent.” 

Proceed.” 

‘‘ This being settled,” resumed the Egyptian, “ the old land- 
marks being left uninjured for those whom we are about to 
desert, we gird up our loins and depart to new climes of faith. 
Dismiss at once from your recollection, from thought, all 


82 


THE LAST DA YS OF FOMFEII, 


lhat you have believed before. Suppose the mind a blanl^ at 
unwritten scroll, ht to receive impressions for the first time. 
Look round the world — observe its order — its regularity — its 
design. Something must have created it — the design speaks a 
designer : in that certainty we first touch land. But what is 
that something ? — A god, you cry. Stay — r.o confused and 
confusing names. Of that which created the world, we know, 
we can know, nothing, save these attributes — power and un- 
varying regularity ; — stern, crushing, relentless regularity — - 
heeding no individual cases — trolling — sweeping — burning on, 

< — no matter what scattered hearts, severed from the general 
mass, fall ground and scoiched beneath its wheels. The mix- 
ture of evil with good — the existence of suffering and of crime 
— in all times have perplexed the wise. They created a god — 
they supposed him benevolent. How then came this evil ? why 
did he permit — nay, why invent, why perpetuate it ? To ac- 
count for this, the Persian creates a second spirit, whose nature 
is evil, and supposes a continual war between that and the god 
of good. In oui own shadowy and tremendous Typhon, the 
Egyptians image a similar demon. Perplexing blunder that 
yet more bewilders us 1 — ^folly that arose from the vain delusion 
that makes a palpable, a corporeal, a human being, of this un- 
known power — tliat clothes the Invisible with attributes and a 
nature similar to tlie Seen. No; to this designer let us give a 
name that does not command our bewildering associations, and 
the mystery becomes more clear — that name is Necessity. 
Necessity, say tlie Greeks, compels the gods. Then why the 
gods? — their agency becomes unnecessary — dismiss them at 
once. Necessity is the ruler of all we see; power, regularity 
—these two qualities make its nature. Would you ask more ? 
— ^you can learn nothing : whether it be eternal — ^whether it 
compels us, its creatures, to new careers after that darkness 
which we call death — we cannot tell. There leave we this 
ancient, unseen, unfathomable power, and come to that which, 
to our eyes, is the great minister of its functions. This we can 
task more, from this we can learn more : its evidence is around 
us — its name is Nature. The error of the sages has been to 
direct their researches to the attributes of necessity^ where all 
is gloom and blindness. Had they confined their researches 
to Nature — what of knowledge might we not already have 
achieved ? Here patience, examination, are never directed in 
vain. We see what we explore ; our minds ascend a palpable 
ladder of causes and effects. Nature is the great agent of the 
external universe, and Necessity imposes upon it the laws by 
which it acts, and impariw to us the power by which we e* 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


83 

amine ; those powers are curiosity and memory — their union is 
reason, their perfection is wisdom. Well, then, I examine by 
the help of these powers this inexhaustible Nature. I examine 
the earth, the air, the ocean, the heaven : I find that all have a 
mystic sympathy with each other — that the mo n sways the 
tides — that the air maintains the earth, and is the medium cf the 
life and sense of things — that by the knowledge of the stars 
we measure the limits of the earth — that we pornon out the 
epochs of time — that by their pale light we are guided into the 
abyss of th ^ past — that in their solemn lore we discern the des- 
tinies of the future. And thus, while we know not that which 
Necessity is, we learn, at least, her decrees. And now, whit 
morality do we glean from this religion ? — for religion it is. I 
believe in two deities. Nature and Necessity ; I worship I he 
last by reverence, the first by investigation. What is the 
morality my religion teaches? This — all things are subjec ; t 
to general rules ; the sun shines for the joy of the many— it 
may bring sorrow to the few ; the night sheds sleep on the multi- 
tude — but it harbors murder as well as rest ; the forests adorn 
the earth — ^but shelter the serpent and the lion ; the ocean 
supports a thousand barks — but it ingulfs the one. Il is only 
thus for the general, and not for the universal benefit, that 
Nature acts, and Necessity speeds on her awful course. This 
is the morality of the dread agents of the world — it is mine, 
who am their creature. I w^ould preserve the delusi ns of 
priestcraft, for they are serviceable to the multitud*' ; I w^ould 
impart to man the arts I discover, the sciences I perfect : I 
would speed the vast career of civilized lore : — in this I serve 
the mass, I fulfill the general law, I execute the great moral 
that Nature preaches. For myself I claim the individual ex- 
ception ; I claim it for the wise — satisfied that my individual 
actions are nothing in the great balance of good and evil, satis- 
fied that the product of my knowledge can ^v^ greater blessings 
to the mass than my desires can operate evil on the few (for the 
first can extend to remotest regions and humanize nations yet 
unborn), I give to the world wisdom, to myself freedom. I 
enlighten the lives of others, and I enj y my own. Yes; our 
wisdom is eternal, but our life is short *, m^ke the most of it 
whilj it lasts. Surrender thy vo- th to plep->urc,^ and thy senses 
t delight. Soon comes the Aour when the wine-cup is shat- 
tered, and the garlands shall co to bloom. Enj^-y while you 
may. Be still, O Apaecides, my pupil and my follower ! I will 
teach thee the mechanism of Nature, her darkest and her wild- 
est secrets — the lore which fools call magic — and the mighty 
mysteries of the stars. By shalt thou discharge thy duty 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


S4 

to the mass , by this shalt thou enlighten thy race. But I will 
lead thee also to pleasures of which the vulgar do not dream ; 
and the day which thou givest to men shall be followed by the 
sweet night which thou surrenderest to thyself/' 

As the Egyptian ceased there rose about, around, beneath, 
the softest music that Lydia ever taught, or Ionia ever per- 
fected. It came like a stream of sound, bathing the senses, 
unawares ; enervating, subduing with delight. It seemed the 
melodies of invisible spirits, such as the shepherd might have 
heard in the golden age, floating through the vales of Thes^ 
saly, or in the noon-tide glades of Paphos. The words which 
had rushed to the lip of Apaecides, in answer to the sophistries 
of the Egyptian, died tremblingly away. He felt it as a pro- 
fanation to break upon that enchanted strain — the suscepti- 
bility of his excited nature, the Greek softness and ardor of 
his secret soul were swayed and captured by surprise. He 
sank on the seat with parted lips and thirsting ear ; while in a 
chorus of voices, bland and melting as those wnich waked 
Psyche in the halls of love, rose the following song ; — 


THE HYMN OF EROS. 

* By the cool banks where soft Cephisus flows, 

A voice sail’d trembling down the waves of air; 
The leaves blushed brighter in the Teian’s rose. 

The doves couch’d breathless in their summer laif 


“While from their hands the purple flowerets fell, 
The laughing Hours stood listening in thfc sky » 
Prom Pan’s green cave to ^Egle’s * haunted cell, 
Heaved the charm’d earth in one delicious sigh. 


‘ Love, sons of earth 1 I am the power of Love I 
Eldest of all the gods, with Chaos t bom ; 

My smile sheds light along the courts above, 

My kisses wake the eyelids of the Mom. 


Mine are the stars — there, ever as ye gaze, 

Y et meet the deep spell of my haunting eyes ; 
Mine is the moon — and, mournful if her rays, 

’Tis that she lingers where her Carian lies. 

The flowers are mine — the blushes of the rose, 
The violet-charming Zephyr to the shade ; 

Mine the quick light that in the Maybeam glows. 
And mine the day-dream in the lonely glade. 


‘’The fairest of the Naiad& 


Uesro(3i 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 


% 

IiOve, sons of earth-^for lover is earth^s isof ttlpro^^ 

Look where ye will— earth; overflows* — with MUt,- 
Learn from the waves that ever kiss the shore. 

And the winds nestling on the heaving sea^ 

All teaches love!’’ — The sweet voice,. like ;a dreamy. 

Melted in . light ; yet still. thfr airs above, 

The. waving sedges,. and the whispering stream. 

And the green forest rustling, murmured ‘ Love!'*** 

As the voices died away, the Egyptian seized'the hand‘ of’ 
ApaeciJes, and led him, wondering, intoxicated; yet half-reluo- 
fant, across the chamber towards the curtain at the far end? ;■ 
and’ now, from behind' that curtain, there seemed to burst % 
thousand sparkling stars : the veil itself;, hitherto dark, was now 
lighted' by these fires behind.' it into the tenderest blue ofi 
heaven. It represented' heaven itself — such a heaven, as in. 
the nights of June might have shone down over the* streams of 
Castaly. Here, and there were painted rosy and^ ai^riai clouds, 
from which smiled,, by the limneris art, faces of divinest beauty, 
and on which reposed the shapes of which Phidias and Apel'l'es 
dreamed. And the stars which studded the transpyarent azuife 
rolled rapidly as they shone, while the music, that again woke 
with a livelier and lighter sound, seemed to imitate the melody 
of the joyous spheres* 

“ Oh ! what m/iraele is this, Arbaces ? ” said Apaecides in fal- 
tering accents. “ After having denied the. gods, art thou about 
to reveal to me ” 

“ Their pleasures I ” interrupted Arbaces, in a tone so differ- 
ent from its usual cold and tranquil harmony that Apaecides 
started and thought the Egyptian himself transformed; and 
now, as they neared the curtain, a wild — a loud — an exulting 
melody burst from behind its concealment. With that sound 
the veil was rent in twain — it parted — it seemed to vanish into 
air : and a scene which no Sybarite ever more than rivalled, 
broke upon the dazzled gaze of the youthful priest. A vast 
banquet-room stretched beyond, blazing with countless lights, 
which filled the warm air with the scents of frankincense, of 
jasmine, of violets, of myrrh ; all that the most odorous flowers, 
all that the most costly spices could distil, seemed pthered 
into one ineffable and ambrosial essence : from the light col- 
umns that sprang upwards to the airy roof, hung draperies of 
white, studded with golden stars. At the extremities of the 
room two fountains cast up a spray, which, catching the rays 
of the roseate light, glittered like countless diamonds. In the 
centre of the room as they entered there rose slowly from the 
floor, to the sound of unseen minstrelsy, a table spread with 


86 


THE LAST DA YS OP POMPEII, 


all the riands which sense ever devoted to fancy, and vases at 
that lost Myrrhine fabric,* so glowing in its colors, so trans* 
parent in its material, were crowned with the exotics of the 
East. The couches, to which this table was the centre, were 
covered with tapestries of azure and gold ; and from invisible 
tubes in the vaulted roof descended showers of fragrant 
waters that cooled the delicious air, and contended with the 
lamps, as if the spirits of wave and fire disputed which element 
could furnish forth the most delicious odors. And now, from 
behind the snowy draperies, trooped such forms as Adonis be- 
held when he lay on the lap of Venus. They came, some with 
garlands, others with lyres ; they surrounded the youth, they 
led his steps to the banquet. They flung the chaplets round 
him in rosy chains. The earth — the thought of earth, van- 
ished from his soul. He imagined himself in a dream, and 
suppressed his breath lest he should wake too soon ; the senses, 
to which he had never yielded as yet, beat in his burning 
pulse, and confused his dizzy and reeling sight. And while 
thus amazed and lost, once again, but in brisk and Bacchic 
measures, rose the magic strains. 

ANACREONTIC. 

* In the veins of the calix foams and glorws 
The blood of the mantling vine. 

But oh ! in the bowl of Youth there glows 
A Lesbium, more divine I 

Bright, bright. 

As the liquid light. 

Its waves through thine eyelids shine I 

Fill up, fill up, to the sparkling brim. 

The juice of the young Lyaeus ; t 

The grape is the key that we owe to him 
From the goal of the world to free ua. 

Drink, drink 1 
What need to shrink, 

When the lamps alone can see us ? 

Drink, drink, as I quaff from thine eyes. 

The wine of a souer tree ; 

Give the smiles to the god of the grape — thy sigha 
Beloved one, give to me. 

Turn, turn. 

My glances bum, 

And thirst for a look from thee ! " 

As the song ended, a group of three maidens, entwinec 
with a chain of starred flowers, and who, while they imitated, 

♦ Which, however, was possibly the porcelain of China,-~though this is t 
matter which admits of considerable dispute, 
t Name of Bacchus, from to unbind, to r^ease. 


THE LAST DA YS OF FOMPEIL 


87 

might have shamed the Graces, advanced towards him In the 
gliding measures of the Ionian dance : such as the Nereids 
wreathed in moonlight on the yellow sands of the .^ean wave 
— such as Cytherea taught her handmaids in the marriage-fjast 
of Psyche and her son. 

Now approaching, they wreathed their chaplet round his 
head ; now kneeling, the youngest of the three proffered him 
the bowl, from which the wine of Lesbos foamed and sparkled. 
The youth resisted no more, he grasped the intoxicating cup, 
the blood mantied fiercely through his veins. He sank upon 
the breast of the nymph who sat beside him, and turning with 
swimming eyes to seek for Arbaces, whom he had lost in the 
whirl of his emotions, he beheld him seated beneath a canopy 
at the upper end of the table, and gazing upon him with a 
smile that encouraged him to pleasure. He beheld him, but 
not as he had hitherto seen, with dark and sable garments, with 
a brooding and solemn brow : a robe that dazzled the sight, so 
studded was its whitest surface with gold and gems, blazed 
upon his majestic form ; white roses, alternated with the em- 
erald and the ruby, and shaped tiara-like, crowned his raven 
locks. He appeared, like Ulysses, to have gained the glory 
of a second youth — his features seemed to have exchanged 
thought for beauty, and he towered amidst the loveliness that 
surrounded him, in all the beaming and relaxing benignity of 
the Olympian god. 

“ Drink, feast, love, my pupil I ** said he ; “ blush not that 
thou art passionate and young. That which thou art, thou 
feelest in thy veins : that which thou shalt be, survey I 

With this he pointed to a recess, and the eyes of Apaecides, 
following the gesture, beheld on a pedestal, placed between the 
statues of Bacchus and Idalia, the form of a skeleton. 

“ Start not,” resumed the Egyptian ; “ that friendly guest 
admonishes us but of the shortness of life. From its jaws 1 
hear a voice that summons us to enjoy.” 

As he spoke, a group of nymphs surrounded the statue ; 
they laid chaplets on its pedestal, and, while the cups were 
emptied and refilled at that glowing board, they sang the fot 
lowing strain : — 

BACCHIC HYMNS TO THE IMAGE OF DEATH. 


I. 

• Thou art in the land of the shadowy Host, 
Thou that didst drink and love ; 

By the Solemn River, a gliding ghost, 

But thy thought is ours above 1 


THE LAST DA KS OF POMPEII, 




If memory yet can fly. 

Back to the golden sky, 

And mourn the pleasures lost f 
By the ruin’d hall these flowers we lay, 

Where thy soul once held its palace ; 

When the rose to thy scent and sight was gay. 

And the smile was in the chalice. 

And the cithara’s silver voice 
Could bid thy heart rejoice 
When night eclipsed the day.” 

Here a new group advancing, turned the tide of the music 
into a quicker and more joyous strain ; — 

IL 

“ Death, death, is the gloomy shore. 

Where we all sail — 

Soft, soft, thou gliding oar ; 

Blow soft, sweet gale ! 

Chain with bright wreaths the Hours 
Victims if all, 

Ever, ’mid song and flowers, 

Victims shoifld fall 1” 

Pausing for a moment, yet quicker and quicker danced the 
silver-footed music ; — 

“ Since Life’s so short, we’ll live to laugh. 

Ah 1 wherefore waste a minute I 
If youth’s the cup we yet can quaff. 

Be love the pearl within it I ” 

A third band now approached with brimming cups, which 
they poured in libation upon that strange altar ; and once more^ 
slow and solemn, rose the changeful melody : — 

III. 

" Thou art welcome. Guest of gloom. 

From the far and fearful sea ! 

When the last rose sheds its bloom. 

Our board shall be spread with thee 

All hail, dark Guest! 

Who hath so fair a plea 
Our welcome Guest to be. 

As thou, whose solemn hall 
At last shall feast us all 
In the dim and dismal coast ? 

Long yet be we the H^ st I 
And thou. Dead Shadow, thou. 

All joyless though thy brow. 

Thou— ^ut our passing Guest 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 


89 

At this moment, she who sat beside Apaecides suddenljf 
00k up the song : — 

IV. 

Happy is yet our doom, 

The earth and the sun are ours ! 

And far from the dreary tomb 

Speed the wings of the rosy Hours-* 

Sweet is for thee the bowl, 

Sweet are thy looks, my love ; 

I fly to thy tender soul. 

As the bird to its mated dove 1 
Take me, ah, take ! 

Clasp’d to thy guardian breast. 

Soft let me sink to rest : 

But wake me — ah, wake f 
And tell me with words and sighs. 

But more with thy melting eyes. 

That my sun is not set — 

That the Torch is not quench’d at the Um, 

That we love, and we breathe, and burn. 

Tell me — thou lov’st me yet 1 ** 


BOOK THE SECOND. 


CHAPTER I. 

A flash house in Pompeii, and the gentlemen of the classic ring. 

To one of those parts of Pompeii, which were tenanted not 
by the lords of pleasure, but by its minions and its victims ; 
the haunt of gladiators and prize-fighters ; of the vicious and 
the penniless ; of the savage and the obscene ; the Alsatia of an 
ancient city — we are now transported. 

It was a large room, that opened at once on the confined 
and crowded lane. Before the threshold was a group of men, 
whose iron and well-strung muscles, whose short and Hercu- 
lean necks, whose hardy and reckless countenances, indicated 
the champions of the arena. On a shelf, without the shop, were 
ranged jars of wine and oil ; and right over this was inserted 
in the wall a coarse painting, which exhibited gladiators drink- 
ing — so ancient and so venerable is the custom of signs. 
Within the room were placed several small tables, arranged 
somewhat in the modern fashion of “ boxes,” and round these 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 


90 

were seated several knots of men, some drinking, some playing at 
dice, some that more skilful game called “ duodecim scripta^^' 
which certain of the blundering learned have mistaken for chess, 
though it rather, perhaps, resembled backgammon of the 
two, and was usually, though not always, played by the assist- 
ance of dice. The hour was in the early forenoon, and nothing 
better, perhaps, than that unseasonable time itself denoted the 
habitual indolence of these tavern-loungers. Yet, despite the 
situation of the house and the character of its inmates, it 
indicated none of that sordid squalor w'hich would have charac- 
terized a similar haunt in a modern city. The gay disposition 
of all the Pompeians, who sought, at least, to gratify the sense 
even where they neglected the mind, was typified by the gaudy 
colors which decorated the walls, and the shapes, fantastic but 
not inelegant, in which the lamps, the drinking-cups, the com- 
monest household utensils, were wrought. 

“ By Pollux ! ” said one of the gladiators, as he leaned 
against the wall of the threshold, “ the wine thou sellest us, 
old Silenus,” — and as he spoke he slapped a portly personage 
on the back, — “is enough to thin the best blood in one’s 
veins.” 

The man thus caressingly saluted, and whose bared arms, 
white apron, and keys and napkin tucked carelessly within his 
girdle, indicated him to be the host of the tavern, was already 
passed into the autumn of his years ; but his form was still so 
robust and athletic, that he might have shamed even the 
sinewy shapes beside him, save that the muscles had seeded, 
as it were, into flesh, that the cheeks were swelled and bloated, 
and the increasing stomach threw into shade the vast and 
massive chest which rose above it. 

“ None of thy scurrilous blusterings with me,” growled the 
gigantic landlord, in the gentle semi-roar of an insulted tiger, 
“ my wine is good enough for a carcase which shall so soon 
soak the dust of the spoliarium.” * 

“ Croakest thou thus, old raven ! ” returned the gladiator, 
laughing scornfully ; “ thou shalt live to hang thyself vrih 
despite when thou seest me win the palm crown ; and when I 
get the purse at the amphitheatre, as I certainly shall, my 
first vow to Hercules shall be to forswear thee and thy vile 
potations evermore.” 

“ Hear to him — hear to this modest Pyrgopolinices ! He 
has certainly served under Bombochides Cluninstaridysarch- 

♦ The place to which the killed or mortally wounded were dragged fron 
ttie arena. 


THE LAST DA ys OF POMPEII, 


9 * 

kies,” * cried the host. Sporus, Niger, Tetraides, he declares 
he shall win the purse from you. Why, by the gods ! each of 
your muscles is strong enough to stifle all his body, or / know 
nothing of the arena ! ” 

“ Ha ! ” said the gladiator, coloring with rising fury, our 
lanista would tell a different story.” 

“ What story could he tell against me, vain Lydon ? ” said 
Tetraides, frowning. 

“ Or me, who have conquered in fifteen fights ? ” said the 
gigantic Niger, stalking up to the gladiator. 

“ Or me ” grunted Sporus, with eyes of fire. 

“Tush ! ” said Lydon, folding his arms, and regarding hU 
rivals with a reckless air of defiance. “ The time of trial will 
soon come ; keep your valor till then.” 

“ Ay, do,” said the surly host ; “ and if I press down my 
thumb to save you, may the Fates cut my thread ! ” 

“Your rope, you mean,” said Lydon, sneeringly: “here is a 
sesterce to buy one.” 

The Titan wine-vender seized the hand extended to him, 
and griped it in so stern a vice that the blood spirted from tha 
fingers’ ends over the garments of the bystanders. 

They set up a savage laugh. 

“I will teach thee, young braggart, to play the Macedonian 
with me ? I am no puny Persian, I warrant thee 1 What, man I 
have I not fought twenty years in the ring, and never lowered 
my arms once ? And have I not received the rod from the 
editor’s own hand as a sign of victory, and as a grace to retire- 
ment on my laurels ! And am I now to be lectured by a boy ? ’* 
So saying, he flung the hand from him in scorn. 

Without changing a muscle, but with the same smiling face 
with which he had previously taunted mine host, did the gladi- 
ator brave the painful grasp he had undergone. But no sooner 
was his hand released, than, crouching for one moment as a 
wild*cat crouches, you might see his hair bristle on his head 
and beard, and with a fierce and shrill yell he sprang on the 
throat of the giant, with an impetus that threw him, vast and 
sturdy as he was, from his balance ; — and down, with the crash 
of a falling rock, he fell ; — while over him fell also his ferocious 
foe. 

Our host, perhaps, had had no need of the rope so kindly 
recommended to him by Lydon, had he remained three minutes 
longer in that position. But summoned to his assistance by the 
noise of his fall, a woman, who had hitherto kept in an inner 
Miles Gloriosus,” Act I.- as much as to say, ic okodem phrase ** 
has served under Bombastes F arioso " 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


92 

apartment, rushed to the scene of battle. This new ally was 
m herself a match for the gladiator ; she was tall, lean, and 
with arms that could give other than soft embraces. In fact, 
the gentle helpmate of Burbo the wine-seller had, like himseH, 
fought in the lists * — nay, under the emperor’s eye. And Burbo 
himself — Burbo, the unconquered in the field, according to 
report, now and tlien yielded the palm to his soft Stratonice. 
This sweet creature no sooner saw the imminent peril that 
awaited her worst half, than without other weapons than those 
with which Nature had provided her, she darted upon the in- 
cumbent gladiator, and, clasping him round the waist with her 
long and snake-like arms, lifted him by a sudden wrench from 
the body of her husband, leaving only his hands still clinging 
to the throat of his foe. So have we seen a dog snatched by 
the hind legs from the strife with a fallen rival in the arms of 
some envious groom ; so have we seen one half of him high in 
air — passive and offenceless — while the other half, head, teeth, 
eyes, claws, seemed buried and engulfed in the mangled and 
prostrate enemy. Meanwhile the gladiators, lapped, and pam- 
pered, and glutted upon blood, crowded delightedly round the 
combatants — their nostrils distended — their lips grinning — 
their eyes gloatingly fixed on the bloody throat of the one, and 
the indented talons of the other. 

“ Habet ! (he has got it !) habet / ” cried they, with a sort cA 
yell, rubbing their nervous hands. 

“ JVbn habeo, ye liars ; I have not gof it ! ” shouted the host, 
as with a mighty effort he wrenched himself from those deadly 
hands, and rose to his feet, breathless, panting, lacerated, bloody; 
and fronting, with reeling eyes, the glaring look and grinning 
teeth of his baffled foe, now struggling (but struggling with dis- 
dain) in the gripe of the sturdy amazon. 

“ Fair play ! ” cried the gladiators : “ one to one ; ” and, 
crowding round Lydon and the woman, they separated our pleas- 
ing host from his courteous guest. 

But Lydon, feeling ashamed at his present position, and en- 
deavoring in vain to shake off the grasp of the virago, slipped 
his hand into his girdle, and drew forth a short knife. So 
menacing was his look, so brightly gleamed the blade, that 
Statronice, who was used to only that form of battle which we 
moderns call the pugilistic, started back in alarm. 

“ O gods ! ” cried she, “ the ruffian ! — he has concealed 
weapons ! Is that fair ? Is that like a gentleman and a gladi- 
ator ? No, indeed, I scorn such fellows ! ” With that she con- 

* Not only did women sometimes fight in the amphitheatres, but even 
those of noble birth participated in that meek ambition. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEZL 


93 

temptuously turned her back on the gladiator, and hastened 
to examine the condition of her husband. 

But he, as much inured to the constitutional exercise as an 
English bull-dog is to a contest with a more gentle antagonist, 
had already recovered himself. The purple hues receded from 
the crimson surface of his cheek, the veins of the forehead 
retired into their wonted size. He shook himself with a com- 
placent grunt, satisfied that he was still alive, and then looking 
at his foe from head to foot with an air of more approbation 
than he had ever bestowed upon him before — 

“ By Castor ! ” said he, “ thou art a stronger fellow than I 
took thee for ! I see thou art a man of merit and virtue ; give 
me thy hand, my hero ! ’’ 

“Jolly old Burbo!^^ cried the gladiators, applauding; 
stanch to the back-bone. Give him thy hand, Lydon. ” 

“ Oh, to be sure,’* said the gladiator ; “ but now I have 
tasted his blood, I long to lap the whole.” 

“ By Hercules ! ” returned the host, quite unmoved, “ that 
is the true gladiator feeling. Pollux! to think what good 
training may make a man ; why a beast could not be fiercer ! ” 
“ A beast I O dullard 1 we beat the beasts hollow,” cried 
Tetraides. 

“Well, well,” said Stratonice, who was now employed 
smoothing her hair and adjusting her dress, “ if ye are ail 
good friends again, I recommend you to be quiet and orderly ; 
for some young noblemen, your patrons and backers, have 
sent to say they will come here to pay you a visit : they wish 
to see you more at their ease than at the schools, before they 
make up their bets on the great fight at the amphitheatre. 
So they always come to my house for that purpose : they 
know we only receive the best gladiators in Pompeii — our 
society is very select, praised be the gods ! ” 

“ Yes,” continued Burbo, drinking off a bowl, or rather a 
pail of wine, “ a man who has won my laurels can only en- 
courage the brave. Lydon, drink, my boy ; may you have an 
konorable old age like mine ! ” 

“ Come here,” said Stratonice, drawing her husband to her 
affectionately by the ears, in that caress which Tibullus has so 
prettily described — “ Come here ! ” 

“ Not so hard, she-wolf ! thou art worse than the gladia- 
tor,” murmured the huge jaws of Burbo. 

“ Hist I ” said she, whispering him ; “ Calenus has just stole 
m, disguised, by the back way. I hope he has brought the 
sesterces.” 

“ Ho 1 ho ! I will join him, ’ sav* Burbo ; “ meanwhile, I 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII, 


94 

say, keep a sharp eye on the cups — attend to the score. Let 
them not cheat thee, wife ; they are heroes, to be sure, but 
then they are arrant rogues : Cacus was othing to them. ” 

“ Never fear me, fool ! ” was the conjugal reply ; and Buibo, 
satisfied with the dear assurance, strode through the apart- 
ment, and sought the penetralia of his house. 

“ So those soft patrons are coming to look at our muscles,” 
said Niger. “ Who sent to previse thee of it, my mistress .> ” 
“ Lepidus. He brings with him Clodius, the surest bettor 
in Pompeii, and the young Greek, Glaucus.’* 

“ A wager on a wager, cried Tetraides ; “ Clodius bets on 
me, for twenty sesterces ! What say you, Lydon ? ” 

“ He bets on said Lydon. 

‘‘No, on me'- grunted Sporus. 

“ Dolts ! do you think he would prefer any of you to 
Niger ? ” said the athlete, thus modestly naming himself. 

“ Well, well,” said Stratonice, as she pierced a huge am- 
phora for her guests, who had now seated themselves before 
one of the tables, “ great men and brave, as ye all think your- 
selves, which of you will fight the Numidian lion in case no 
malefactor should be found to deprive you of the option ? ” 

“ I who have escaped your arms, stout Stratonice,” said 
Lydon, “ might safely, I think, encounter the lion. ” 

“ But tell me,” said Tetraides, “ where is that pretty young 
slave of yours — the blind girl, with bright eyes? I have not 
seen her a long time.” 

“ Oh j she is too delicate for you, my son of Neptune,” * 
said the hostess, “ and too nice even for us, I think. We 
send her into the town to sell flowers and sing to the ladies ; 
she makes us more money so than she would by waiting on 
you. Besides, she has often other employments which lie 
under the rose. ” 

“ Other employments I ” said Niger ; “ why, she is too 
young for them. ” 

“ Silence, beast ! ” said Stratonice ; “ you think there is no 
play but the Corinthian. If Nydia were twice the age she is 
at present, she would be equally fit for Vesta — poor girl I ” 

“ But, hark ye, Stratonice,” said Lydon ; “ how didst thou 
come by so gentle and delicate a slave ? She were more meet 
for the handmaid of some rich matron of Rome than for thee.” 

“ That is true,” returned Stratonice ; “ and some day ot 
other I shall make my fortune by selling her. How came I by 
Nydia, thou askest ? ” 


* Son of Nepttinr-^ Latin phrase for a boisterous, ferocious fellow. 


THE LAST DA YS OF FOMPEIi 


95 


«AyI” 

‘‘Why, thou seest, my slave Staphyla — thou rememberest 
Staphyla, Niger 

“ Ay, a large-handed wench, with a face like a comic mask. 
How^ should I forget her, by Pluto, whose handmaid she doubt- 
less is at this moment ! ” 

“Tush, brute 1 — Well, Staphyla died one day, and a great 
loss she was to me, and I went into the market to buy me 
another slave. But, by the gods ! they were all grown so dear 
since I had bought poor Staphyla, and money was so scarce, 
that I was about to leave the place in despair, when a merchant 
plucked me by the robe. ‘ Mistress,’ said he, ‘ dost thou want 
a s’*ave cheap ? 1 have a child to sell — a bargain. She is but 

little, and almost an infant, it is true ; but she is quick, and 
quiet, docile and clever, sings well, and is of good blood, I 
assure you.’ ‘ Of what country ?’ said I, ‘Thessalian.’ Now 
I know the Thessalians were acute and gentle ; so I said I 
would see the girl. I found h^'r just as you see her now, 
scarcely smaller and scarcely younger in appearance. She 
looked patient a»d resigned enough, with her hands crossed 
on her bosom, and her eyes downcast. I asked the merchant 
his price : it was moderate, and I bought her at once. The mer- 
chant brought her to my house, and disappeared in an instant 
Well, my friends, guess my astonishment when I found she 
was blind ! Ha 1 ha 1 a clever fellow that merchant 1 I ran at 
once to the magistrates, but the rogue was alr3ady gone from 
Pompeii. So I was forced to go home in a very ill humor, I 
assure you ; and the poor girl felt the effects of it too. But it 
was not her fault that she was blind, for she had been so from 
her birth. By degrees, we got reconciled to our purchase. 
True, she had not the strength of Staphyla, and was of very 
little use in the house, but she could soon find her way about 
the town, as well as if she had the eyes of Argus : and when 
one morning she brought us home a handful of sei terces, which 
she said she had got from selling some flowers she had gathered 
in our poor little garden, we thought the gods had sent her to 
us. So from that time we let her go out as she likes, filling 
her baskets with flowers, which she wreathes into garlands after 
the Thessalian fashion, which pleases the gallants ; and the 
great people seemed to take a fancy to her, tor they always pay 
her more than they do any other flower-girl, and she brings all 
of it home to us, which is more than any other slave would da 
So I work for myself, but I shall soon afford from her earnings 
to buy me a secoiid Staphyla : doubtless, the Thessalian kid 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


96 

napper had stolen the blind girl from gentle parents.* ^sides 
her skill in the garlands, she sings and plays on the cithara, 
which also brings money ; and lately but that is a secret.” 

“ That is a secret 1 What 1 ” cried Lydon ; “ art thou 
turned sphinx ? ” 

“ Sphinx, no — why sphinx ? ” 

“ Cease thy gabble, good mistress and bring us our meat — 
I am hungry,” said Sporus, impatiently. 

“ And ij too, ’ echoed the grim Niger, whetting his knife on 
the palm of his hand. 

The amazon stalked away to the kitchen, and soon returned 
with a tray laden with large pieces of meat half-raw : for so, as 
now, dia the heroes of the prize-fight imagine they best sus- 
tained their hardihood and ferocity ; they drew round the table 
with the eye of famished wolves — the meat vanished, the wine 
flowed. So leave we those important personages of classic life 
to follow the steps of Burbo. 


CHAPTER II. 

Two worthies. 

In the earlier times of Rome the priesthood was a profes- 
sion, not of lucre but of honor. It was embraced by the noblest 
citizens — it was forbidden to the plebeians. Afterwards, and 
long previous to the present date, it was equally open to all 
ranks ; at least, that part of the profession which embraced 
the flamens, or priests, — not of religion generally, but of pe- 
culiar gods. Even the priest of Jupiter (the Flamen Dialis), 
preceded by a lictor, and entitled by his office to the entrance 
of the senate, at first the especial dignitary of the patricians, 
was subsequently the choice of the people. The less national 
and less honored deities were usually served by plebeian min- 
isters ; and many embraced the profession, as now the Roman 
Catholic Christians enter the monastic fraternity, less from 
the impulse of devotion than the suggestions of a calculating 
poverty. Thus Calenus, the priest of Isis, was of the lowest 
origin. His relations, though not his parents, were freedmen. 
He had received from them a liberal education, and from his 

* The Thessalian slave-merchants were celebrated for purloining persons 
of birth and education ; they did not always spare those of their own country. 
Aristophanes sneers bitterly at that people (proverbially treache*^us) fol 
their unquenchable desire of gain by this barter of flesh. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


97 

father a small patrimony, which he had soon exhausted. He 
embraced the priesthood as a last resource from distress. 
Whatever the state emoluments of the sacred profession, which 
at that time were probably small, the officers of a popular 
temple could never complain of the profits of their calling. 
There is no profession so lucrative as that which practises on 
the superstition of the multitude. 

Calenus had but one surviving relative at Pompeii, and that 
was Burbo. Various dark and disreputable ties, stronger than 
those of blood, united together their hearts and interests ; and 
often the minister of Isis stole disguised and furtively from 
the supposed austerity of his devotions ; — and gliding through 
the back door of the retired gladiator, a man infamous alike 
by vices and by profession, rejoiced to throw off the last rag 
of an hypocrisy which, but for the dictates of avarice, his 
ruling passion, would at all times have sat clumsily upon a 
nature too brutal for even the mimicry of virtue. 

Wrapped in one of those large mantles which came in use 
among the Romans in proportion as they dismissed the toga, 
whose ample folds well concealed the form, and in which a 
sort of hood (attached to it) afforded no less a security to the 
features, Calenus now sat in the small and private chamber of 
the wine-cellar, whence a small passage ran at once to that 
back entrance, with which nearly all the houses of Pompeii 
were furnished. 

Opposite to him sat the sturdy Burbo, carefully counting 
on a table between them a little pile of coins which the priest 
had just poured from his purse — ^for purses were as common 
then as now, with this difference — ^they were usually better 
furnished. 

“ You see,” said Calenus, “ that we pay you handsomely, 
and you ought to thank me for recommending you to so ad- 
vantageous a market.” 

“ I do, my cousin, I do,” replied Burbo, affectionately, as 
he swept the coins into a leathern receptacle, which he then 
deposited in his girdle, drawing the buckle round his capacious 
waist more closely than he was wont to do in the lax hours of 
his domestic avocations. '‘And by Isis, Pisis, and Nisis, or 
whatever other gods there may be in E^pt, my little Nydia 
is a very Hesperides — a garden of gold to me.” 

“ She sings well, and plays like a muse,” returned Calenus ; 
“ those are virtues that he who employs me always pays liber- 
ally.”’ 

“ He is a god,” cried Burbo, enthusiastically; “ every rich 
man who is generous deserves to be worshipped. But come, a 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


98 

cup of wine, old friend : tell me more about it. What does she 
do ? she is frightened, talks of her oath, and reveals noth- 
ing.*' 

“ Nor will I, by my right hand I I, too, have taken that 
terrible oath of secrecy.” 

“ Oath 1 what are oaths to men like us ? ** 

“ True, oaths of a common fashion ; but this ! ** — and the 
stalwart priest shuddered as he spoke. “ Yet,” he continued, 
In emptying a huge cup of unmixed wine, “ I will own to thee, 
that it is not so much the oath that I dread as the vengeance 
of him who proposed it. By the gods ! he is a mighty sorcerer, 
and could draw my confession from the moon, did I dare to 
make it to her. Talk no more of this. By Pollux ! wild as 
those banquets are which I enjoy with him, I am never quite 
at my ease there. I love, my boy, one jolly hour with thee, 
and one of the plain, unsophisticated, laughing girls that I 
meet in this chamber, all smoke-dried though it be, better than 
whole nights of those magnificent debauches.’* 

‘‘Hoi sayest thou so! To-morrow night, please the gods, 
we will have then a snug carousal.** 

“ With all my heart,” said the priest, rubbing his hands, 
and drawing himself nearer to the table. 

At this moment they heard a slight noise at the door as 
of one feeling the handle. The priest lowered the hood over 
his head. 

“Tush I” whispered the host, “it is but the blind girl,” 
as Nydia opened the door, and entered the apartment. 

“ Ho ! girl, and how durst thou ? thou lookest pale — thou 
hast kept late revels ? No matter, the young must be always 
the young,” said Burbo, encouragingly. 

The girl made no answer, but she dropped on one of the 
seats with an air of lassitude. Her color went and came 
rapidly : she beat the floor impatiently with her small feet, then 
she suddenly raised her face, and said, with a determined 
voice — 

“Master, you may starve me if you will — you may beat 
me — ^you may threaten me with death — but I will go no more 
to that unholy place ! ** 

“ How, fool 1 ” said Burbo, in a savage voice, and his 
heavy brows met darkly over his fierce and bloodshot eyes ; 
“how, rebellious ! Take care.” 

“ I have said it,” said the poor girl, crossing her hands on 
her breast. 

“What I my modest one, sweet vestal, thou wilt go no more! 
Very well, thou shalt be carried.” 


THE LAST DA KS" OF POMPEII. 


99 

“I will raise the city with my cries,” said she, passionately; 
and the color mounted to her brow. 

“ We will take care of that, 'oo ; thou shalt go gagged.” 

Then may the gods help me I ” said Nydia, rising ; “ I will 
appeal to the magistrates.” 

“ Thine oath remember / ” said a hollow voice, as for the first 
time Calenus joined in the dialogue. 

At these words a trembling shook the frame of the unfortunate 
girl ; she clasped her hands imploringly. “ Wretch that I ami” 
she cried, and burst violently into sobs. 

Whether or not it was the sound of that vehement sorrow 
which brought the gentle Stratonice to the spot, her grisly form 
at this moment appeared in the chamber. 

“ How now ? *what hast thou been doing with my slave, 
brute ? ” said she, angrily, to Burbo. 

“ Be quiet, wife,” said he, in a tone half-sullen, half-timid ; 
“ you want new girdles and fine clothes, do you ? Well then, 
take care of your slave, or you may want them long. Vce capiti 
tuo — vengeance on thy head, wretched one 1 ” 

*^What is this?” said the hag, looking from one to the 
other. 

Nydia started as by a sudden impulse from the wall against 
which she had leaned ; she threw herself at the feet of Stratonice ; 
she embraced her knees, and looking up at her with those sight- 
less but touching eyes — 

“Oh, my mistress!” sobbed she, “you are a woman — you 
have had sisters, — you have been young like me, — feel for me, 
—save me I I will go to those horrible feasts no more I ” 

“ Stuff ! ” said the hag, dragging her up rudely by one of 
those delicate hands, fit for no harsher labor than that of weav- 
ing the flowers which made her pleasure or her trade ; “ stuff I 
these fine scruples are not for slaves.” 

“ Hark ye,” said Burbo, drawing forth his purse, and chink 
ing its contents : “ you hear this music, wife : by Pollux I if you 
do not break in yon colt with a tight rein, you will hear it no 
more.” 

“ The girl is tired,” said Stratonice, nodding to Calenus, 
“ She will be more docile when you next want her.” 

“ You / you / who is here? ” cried Nydia, casting her eyes 
round the apartment with so fearful and straining a survey, 
that Calenus rose in alarm from his seat, — 

“ She must see with those eyes ! ” muttered he, 

“ Who is here ? speak in heaven’s name 1 Ah, if you were 
blind like me, you would be less cruel,” said she ; and she 
again burst into tears. 


loo 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


Take her away,^' said Burbo, impatiently ; “ I hate these 
whimperings.’^ 

“ Come ! ” said Stratonice, pushing the poor child by the 
shoulders. 

Nydia drew herself aside, with an air to which resolution 
gave dignity. 

“ Hear me,” she said ; “ I have served you faithfully, — I who 
was brought up — Ah I my mother, my poor mother ! didst thou 
dream I should come to this ? ” She dashed the tears from her 
eyes and proceeded : — “ Command me in aught else, and I will 
<Aey ; but I tell you now, hard, stem, inexorable as you are, 
— I tell you that I will go there no more ; or, if I am forced there, 
that I will implore the mercy of the praetor himself — I have said 
it. Hear me, ye gods, I swear ! ” 

The hag eyes glowed with fire ; she seized the child by the 
hair with one hand, and raised on high the other — ^that formid- 
able right hand, the least blow of which seemed capable to 
crush the frail and delicate form that trembled in her grasp. That 
thought itself appeared to strike her, for she suspended the blow, 
changed her purpose, and dragging Nydia to the wall, seized 
from a hook a rope, often, alas ! applied to a similar purpose, 
and the next moment the shrill, the agonized shrieks of the 
blind girl rang piercingly through the house. 


CHAPTER III. 

Glaocus makes a purchase that afterwards costs him dear. 

** Holla, my brave fellows ! ” said Lepidus, <%tooping hia 
head, as he entered the low doorway of the house of Burbo. 
“We have come to see which of you most honors your lan- 
ista,” The gladiators rose from the table in respect to three 
gallants known to be amongst the gayest and richest youths 
of Pompeii, and whose voices were therefore the dispensers of 
amphitheatrical reputation. 

“ What fine animals 1 ” said Clodius to Glaucus : “ worthy 
to be gladiators I ” 

“ It is a pity they are not warriors,” returned Glaucus. 

A singular thing it was to see the dainty and fastidious 
Lepidus, whom in a banquet a ray of daylight seemed to blind, 
— whom in the bath a breeze of air seemed to blast, — in whom 
Nature seemed twisted and perverted from every natural im* 


TBiL LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


loi 


puise, and curdled into one dubious thing of effeminacy and 
art ; — a singular thing was it to see this Lepidus, now all eager- 
ness, and energy, and life, patting the vast shoulders of the 
gladiators with blanched and girlish hand, feeling with a mine* 
ing gripe their great brawn and iron muscles, all lost in calculat- 
ing admiration at that manhood which he had spent his life in 
carefully banishing from himself. 

So have we seen at this day the beardless fiutterers of the 
saloons of London thronging round the heroes of the Fives- 
court ; — so have we seen them admire, and gaze, and calculate 
a bet ; — so have we seen them meet together, in ludicrous yet 
in melancholy assemblage, the two extremes of civilized so- 
ciety, — the patrons of pleasure and its slaves — vilest of all 
slaves — at once ferocious and mercenary ; male prostitutes, 
who sell their strength as women their beauty ; beasts in act, 
but baser than beasts in motive, for the last, at least, do not 
mangle themselves for money ! 

“ Ha I Niger, how will you fight,” said Lepidus, and with 
whom ? ” 

“ Sporus challenges me,” said the grim giant ; “ we shall 
fight to the death, I hope.” 

“ Ah ! to be sure,” grunted Sporus, with a twinkle of his 
small eye. 

“ He takes the sword, I the net and the trident : it will be 
rare sport. I hope the survivor will have enough to keep up 
the dignity of the crown.” 

‘‘ Never fear, we’ll fill the purse, my Hector,” said Clodius : 
•Met me see, — ^you fight against Niger? Giaucus, a bet — I 
back Niger.” 

“ I told you so,” cried Niger cxultingly. “ The noble Clodius 
knows me ; count yourself dead already, my Sporus.” 

Clodius took out his tablet — “A bet, — ten sestertia.* 
What say you ? ” 

“ So be it,” said Giaucus. “ But whom have we here ? 
I never saw this hero before ; ” and he glanced at Lydon, whose 
limbs were slighter than those of his companions, and who ha^ 
something of grace, and something even of nobleness in his 
face, which his profession had not yet wholly destroyed. 

“ It is Lydon, a youngster, practised only with the wooden 
«word as yet,” answered Niger, condescendingly. “ But he has 
the true blood in him, and has challenged Tetraides.” 

« He challenged said Lydon : “ I accept the offer.” 

“And how do you fight,” asked Lepidus. “ Chut, my boyi 


* little more than 


i02 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


®rait a while before you contend with Tetraides.* Lydoo 
smiled disdainfully. 

“ Is he a citizen or a slave ? ” said Clodius. 

A citizen ; — we are all citizens here,” quoth Niger. 

“ Stretch out your arm, my Lydon,” said Lepidus, with the 
air of a connoisseur. 

The gladiator, with a significant glance at his companions, 
extended an arm, which, if not so huge in its girth as those of 
his comrades, was so firm in its muscles, so beautifully sym- 
metrical in its proportions, that the three visitors uttered simul- 
taneously an admiring exclamation. 

“ Well, man, what is your weapon ? ” said Clodius, tablet in 
hand. 

“ We are to fight first with the cestus ; afterwards, if both 
survive, with swords,” returned Tetraides, sharply, and with an 
envious scowl. 

“ With the cestus ! ” cried Glaucus ; “ there you are wrong, 
Lydon ; the cestus is the Greek fashion : I know it well. You 
should have encouraged flesh for that contest ; you are far too 
thin for it — avoid the cestus.” 

“ I cannot,” said Lydon. 

“ And why ? ” 

“ I have said — because he has challenged me.** 

“ But he will not hold you to the precise weapon.” 

** My honor holds me ! ” returned Lydon, proudly. 

** I bet on Tetraides, two to one, at the cestus,” said Clo- 
dius ; “ shall it be, Lepidus ? — even betting, with swords.” 

“ If you give me three to one, I will not take the odds,” said 
Lepidus : “ Lydon will never come to the swords. You are 
mighty courteous.” 

“ What say you, Glaucus ? ” said Clodius, 

** I will take the odds three to one.” 

“Ten sestertia to thirty.” 

“ Yes.” * 

Clodius wrote the bet in his book. 

“ Pardon me, noble sponsor mine,” said Lydon, in a low 
voice to Glaucus : “ but how much think you the victor will 
gain?” 

“ How much ? why, perhaps seven sestertia.” 

“You are sure it will be as much ?” 

“ At least. But out on you ! — a Greek would have thought 

^ ♦ The readei will not confound the sester*/ with the sester*Vr. A sestep 
Hum, which was a sum, not a coin, was a thousand times the value of a 
«ester//z^j ; the first was equivalent to ;^8. u. the last to \d, 

farthings of our money. ^ 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


103 

of the honor, and not the money. O Italians ! everywhere 
are Italians ! ” 

A blush mantled over the bronzed cheek of the gladiator. 

“ Do not wrong me, noble Glaucus ; I think of both, but 
I should never have been a gladiator but for the money.^* 

“ Base ! mayst thou fall ! A miser never was a hero.” 

“ I am not a miser,” said Lydon, haughtily, and he with- 
drew to the other end of the room. 

“ But I don’t see Burbo ; where is Burbo ? I must talk with 
Burbo,” cried Clodius. 

He is within,” said Niger, pointing to the door at the 
extremity of the room. 

“ And Stratonice, the brave old lass, where is she ? ” quoth 
Lepidus. 

“ Why, she was here just before you entered ; but she heard 
something that displeased her yonder, and vanished. Pollux I 
old Burbo had perhaps caught hold of some girl in the back 
room. I heard a female’s voice crying out ; the old dame is as 
jealous as Juno.” 

Ho ! excellent ! ” cried Lepidus, laughing. “ Come, 
Clodius, let us go shares with Jupiter; perhaps he has caught 
a Leda.” 

At this moment a loud cry of pain and terror startled the 
group. 

“ Oh, spare me ! spare me 1 I am but a child, I am blind — 
is not that punishment enough ? ” 

“ O Pallas I I know that voice, it is my poor flower-girl 1 ” 
exclaimed Glaucus, and he darted at once into the quarter 
whence the cry rose. 

He burst the door ; he beheld Nydia writhing in the grasp 
of the infuriate hag; the cord, already dabbled with blood, 
was raised in the air — it was suddenly arrested. 

“ Fury ! ” said Glaucus, and with his left hand he caught 
Nydia from her grasp ; “ how dare you use thus a girl— one of 
your own sex, a child ! My Nydia, my poor infant I ” 

“ Oh ! is that you — is that Glaucus ? ” exclaimed the flower- 
girl, in a tone almost of transport ; the tears stood arrested on 
her cheek ; she smiled, she clung to his breast, she kissed his 
robe as she clung. 

“And how dare you, pert stranger I interfere between a 
free woman and her slave. By the gods ! despite vour fine 
tunic and your filthy perfumes, I doubt whether you are even a 
Roman citizen, my mannikin.” 

“ Fair words, mistress — fair words ! ” said Clodius, now 
entering with Lepidus. “ This is my friend and sworn brother : 


104 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEIL 


he must be put under shelter of your tongue, sweet one ; it 
^ains stones ! ” 

“ Give me my slave ! ” shrieked the virago, placing her 
/nighty grasp on the breast of the Greek. 

‘‘Not if all your sister Furies could help you,” answered 
Glaucus. “ Fear not, sweet Nydia ; an Athenian never forsook 
distress ! ” 

“ Holla ! ” said Burbo, rising reluctantly, “ what turmoil 
is all this about a slave ? Let go the young gentleman, wife — 
let him go : for his sake the pert thing shall be spared this 
once.” So saying, he drew, or rather dragged off, his ferocious 
helpmate. 

“ Methought when we entered,” said Clodius, “ there was 
another man present ? ” 

“ He has gone.” 

For the priest of Isis had indeed thought it high time to 
vanish. 

“ Oh, a friend of mine ! a brother cupman, a quiet dog, 
who does not love these snarlings,” said Burbo, carelessly, 
“ But go, child, you will tear the gentleman’s tunic if you cling 
to him so tight ; go, you are pardoned.” 

“ Oh, do not — do not forsake me ! ” cried Nydia, clinging 
yet closer to the Athenian. 

Moved by her forlorn situation, her appeal to him, her own 
innumerable and touching graces, the Greek seated himself 
on one of the rude chairs. He held her on his knees — he 
wiped the blood from her shoulders with his long hair — he 
kissed the tears from her cheeks — he whispered to her a thou- 
sand of those soothing words with which we calm the grief of 
a child ; — and so beautiful did he seem in his gentle and com 
soling task, that even the fierce heart of Stratonice was touched. 
His presence seemed to shed light over that base and obscene 
haunt — young, beautiful, glorious, he was the emblem of all 
that earth made most happy, comforting one that earth had 
abandoned 1 

“ Well, who could have thought our blind Nydia had been 
so honored ? ” said the virago, wiping her heated brow. 

Glaucus looked up at Burbo. 

“ My good man,” said he, “ this is your slave ; she sings 
well, she is accustomed to the care of flowers — I wish to make 
a present of such a slave to a lady. Will you sell her to me ? ” 
As he spoke, he felt the whole frame of the poor girl tremble 
with delight ; she started up, she put her dishevelled nair from 
ner eyes, she looked around, as if, alas 1 she had the power to 
fee/ 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


105 

“Sell our Nydia ! no, indeed,’^ said Stratonice, gruffly. 

Nydia sank back with a long sigh, and again clasped tha 
robe of her protector. 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Clodius, imperiously, “you must oblige 
me. What, man ! what, oid dame 1 onend me, and your trade 
is ruined. Is not Burbo my kinsman Pansa’s client? Am I 
not the oracle of the amphitheatre and its heroes ? If I say the 
word. Break up your wine-jars — ^you sell no more. Glaucus, 
the slave is yours.” 

Burbo scratched his huge head in evident embarrassment, 

“ The girl is worth her weight in gold to me.” 

“ Name your price, I am rich,” said Glaucus. 

The ancient Italians were like the modern, there was noth- 
ing they would not sell, much less a poor blind girl. 

“ I paid six sestertia for her, she is worth twelve now,** 
muttered Stratonice. 

“ You shall have twenty ; come to the magistrates at once, 
and then to my house for your money.” 

“ I would not have sold the dear girl for a hundred but to 
oblige noble Clodius,” said Burbo whiningly. “ And you 
will speak to Pansa about the place of designator at the amphi- 
theatre, noble Clodius ? it would just suit me.” 

“ Thou shalt have it,” said Clodius ; adding in a whisper 
to Burbo, “ Yon Greek can make your fortune ; money runs 
through him like a sieve : mark to-day with white chalk my 
Priam.” 

“ An dabis ? ** said Glaucus, in the formal question of sale 
and barter. 

“ Dabitur^^' answered Burbo. 

“ Then, then, I am to go with you — with you ? O happi 
ness ! ” murmured Nydia. 

“ Pretty one, yes ; and thy hardest task henceforth shall 
be to sing thy Grecian hymns to the loveliest lady in Pompeii.’* 

The girl sprang from his clasp ; a change came over her 
whole face, so bright the instant before ; she sighed heavily, 
and then once more taking his hand, she said — 

“ I thought I was to go to your house ? ” 

“ And so thou shalt for the present ; come, we loss time 


to6 


THE LAST DA OF POMPEU. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The rival of Glaucus presses onward in the rare. 

loNE was one of those brilliant characters which, but once 
or twice, flash across our career. She united in the highest 
perfection the rarest of earthly gifts, — Genius and Beauty, 
No one ever possessed superior intellectual qualities without 
knowing them, — the alliteration of modesty and merit is pretty 
enough, but where merit is great, the veil of that modesty you 
admire never disguises its extent from its possessor. It is the 
proud consciousness of certain qualities that it cannot reveal 
to the every-day world, that gives to genius that shy, and re- 
served, and troubled air, which puzzles and flatters you when 
you encounter it. 

lone, than, knew her genius ; but, with that charming ver- 
satility that belongs of right to women, she had the faculty, so 
few of a kindred genius in the less malleable sex can claim — 
the faculty to bend and model her graceful intellect to all whom 
it encountered. The sparkling fountain threw its waters alike 
upon the strand, the cavern, and the flowers ; it refreshed, it 
smiled, it dazzled everjnvhere. That pride, which is the neces- 
sary result of superiority, she wore easily — in her breast it con- 
centred itself in independence. She pursued thus her own 
bright and solitary path. She asked no aged matron to direct 
and guide her, — she walked alone by the torch of her own un- 
flickering purity. She obeyed no tyrannical and absolute cus- 
tom. She moulded custom to her own will, but this so delicately 
and with so feminine a grace, so perfect an exemption from 
error that you could not say she outraged custom, but com* 
manded it. The wealth of her graces was inexhaustible — she 
beautified the commonest action ; a word, a look from her, 
seemed magic. Love her, and you entered into a new world, 
you passed from this trite and commonplace earth. You were 
in a land in which your eyes saw everything through an en- 
chanted medium. In her presence you felt as if listening to 
exquisite music ; you were steeped in that sentiment which has 
so little of earth in it, and which music so well inspires, — that 
intoxication which refines and exalts, which seizes, it is true, the 
sen.’ses, but gives them the character of the soul. 

She was peculiarly formed, then, to command and fascinate 
t&e ordinary and the bolder natures of men ; to love hel 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


lOf 

to unite two passions, that of love and of ambition, — ^you 
aspired when you adored her. It was no wonder that she had 
completely chained and subdued the mysterious but burning 
soul of the Egyptian, a man in whom dwelt the fiercest passions. 
Her beauty and her soul alike enthralled him. 

Set apart himself from the common world, he loved that 
daringness of character which also made itself, among common 
things, aloof and alone. He did not, or he would not see, that 
that very isolation put her yet more from him than from the 
vulgar. Far as the poles — ^far as the night from day, his soli- 
tude was divided from hers. He was solitary from his dark and 
solemn vices — she from her beautiful fancies and her purity of 
virtue. 

If it was not strange that lone thus enthralled the Egyptian, 
far less strange was it that she had captured, as suddenly as 
irrevocably, the bright and sunny heart of the Athenian. The 
gladness of a temperament which seemed woven from the beams 
of light had led Glaucus into pleasure. He obeyed no more 
vicious dictates when he wandered into the dissipations of his 
time, than the exhilarating voices of youth and health. He threw 
the brightness of his nature over every abyss and cavern through 
which he strayed. His imagination dazzled him, but his heart 
never was corrupted. Of far more penetration than his com- 
panions deemed, he saw that they sought to prey upon his 
riches and his youth : but he despised wealth save as the means 
of enjoyment, and youth was the great sympathy that united 
him to them. He felt, it is true, the impulse of nobler thoughts 
and higher aims than in pleasure c uld be indulged : but the 
world was one vast prison, to which the Sovereign of Rome was 
the Imperial jailer ; and the very virtues which in the free days 
of Athens would have made him ambitious, in the slavery of 
earth made him inactive and supiVe. For in that unnatural 
and bloated civilization, all that was noble in emulation was 
forbidden. Ambition in the regions of a despotic and luxuri- 
ous court was but the contest of flattery and craft. Avarice 
had become the sole ambition, — men desired praetorships and 
provinces only as the license to pillage, and government was 
but the excuse of rapine. It is in small states that glory is 
most active and pure, — the more confined the limits of the cir- 
cle, the more ardent the patriotism. In small states, opinion is 
concentrated and strong, — every eye reads your actions — your 
public motives are blended with your private ties,— every spot 
in your narrow sphere is crowded with forms familiar since your 
childhood,— the applause of your citizens is like the caresses of 
your friends. But in large states, the city is but the court ; the 


, o 8 the last da YS of POMPEII. 

provinces — unknown to you, unfamiliar in customs, perhaps ill 
language, — have no claim on your patriotism, the ancestry of 
their inhabitants is not yours. In the court you desire favoi 
instead of glory ; at a distance from the court, public opinion 
has vanished from you, and self-interest has no counterpoise. 

Italy, Italy, while I write, your skies are over me — your seas 
flow beneath my feet, listen not to the blind policy which would 
unite all your crested cities, mourning for their republics, into 
one empire ; false, pernicious delusion ! your only hope of re- 
generation is in division. Florence, Milan, Venice, Genoa, may 
be free once more, if each is free. But dream not of freedom 
for the whole while you enslave the parts ; the heart must be 
the centre of the system, the blood must circulate freely every- 
where : and in vast communities you behold but a bloated and 
feeble giant, whose brain is imbecile, whose limbs are dead, and 
who pays in disease and weakness the penalty of transcending 
the natural proportions of health and vigor. 

Thus thrown back upon themselves, the more ardent quali- 
ties of Glaucus found no vent, save in that overflowing imagina- 
tion which gave grace to pleasure, and poetry to thought. Ease 
was less despicable than contention with parasites and slaves, 
and luxury could yet be refined though ambition could not be 
ennobled. But all that was best and brightest in his soul woke 
at once when he knew lone. Here was an empire, worthy of 
demigods to attain — here was a glory, which the reeking smoke 
of a foul society could not soil or dim. Love, in every time, in 
every state, can thus find space for its golden altars. And tell 
me if there ever, even in the ages most favorable to glory, could 
be a triumph more exalted and elating than the conquest of one 
noble heart ? 

And whether it was that this sentiment inspired him, his 
ideas glowed more brightly, his soul seemed more awake and 
more visible, in lone’s presence. If natural to love her, it was 
natural that she should return the passion. Young, brilliant, 
eloquent, enamored, and Athenian, he was to her as the incar- 
nation of the poetry of her father’s land. They were not like 
creatures of a world in which strife and sorrow are the elements ; 
they were like things to be seen only in the holiday of nature, 
so glorious and so fresh were their youth, their beauty, and 
their love. They seemed out of place in the harsh and every- 
day earth ; they belonged of right to the Saturnian age, and 
the dreams of demigod and nymph. It was as if the poetry 
of life gathered and fed itself in them, and in their hearts 
were concentrated the last rays of the sun of Delos and of 
Greece. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIr, 


109 


But if lone was independent in her choice of life, so was her 
modest pride proportionately vigilant and easily alarmed. The 
falsehood of the Egyptian was invented by a deep knowledge ot 
her nature. The story of coarseness, of indelicacy, in Glaucus, 
stung her to the quick. She felt it a reproach upon her charac- 
ter and her career, a punishment above all to her love ; she felt, 
for the first time, how suddenly she had yielded to that love ; 
she blushed with shame at a weakness, the extent of which 
she was startled to perceive ; she imagined it was that weak- 
ness which had incurred the contempt of Glaucus ; she endured 
the bitterest curse of noble natures — humiliation ! Yet her love, 
perhaps, was no less alarmed than her pride. If one moment 
she murmured reproaches upon Glaucus — if one moment she 
renounced, she almost hated him — at the next she burst into 
passionate tears, her heart yielded to its softness, and she said 
in the bitterness of anguish, “ He despises me — he does not 
love me.” 

From the hour the Eg3rptian had left her, she had retired to 
her most secluded chamber, she had shut out her handmaids, 
she had denied herself to the crowds that besieged her door. 
Glaucus was excluded with the rest; he wondered, but he 
guessed not why ! He never attributed to his lone — his queen 
— ^his goddess — that woman-like caprice of which the love-poets 
of Italy so unceasingly complain. He imagined her, in the 
majesty of her candor, above all the arts that torture. He was 
troubled, but his hopes were not dimmed, for he knew already 
that he loved and was beloved ; what more could he desire as 
an amulet against fear ? 

At deepest night, then, when the streets were hushed, and 
the high moon only beheld his devotions, he stole to that temple 
of his heart — her home ; * and wooed her after the beautiful 
fashion of his country. He covered her threshold with the rich- 
est garlands, in which every flower was a volume of sweet pas- 
sion ; and he charmed the long summer-night with the sound of 
the Lycian lute ; and verses, which the inspiration of the moment 
sufficed to weave. 

But the window above opened not ; no smile made yet 
more holy the shining air of night. All was still and dark. 
He knew not if his verse was welcome and his suit was 
heard. 

Yet lone slept not, nor disdained to hear. Those soft strains 
ascended to her chamber; they soothed, they subdued her. 
While she listened, she believed nothing against her lover ; but 
when they were stilled at last, and his step departed, the spell 

♦ Athenaeus— “ The true temple of Cupid is the home of the beloved one.** 


no 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


ceased ; and, in the bitterness of her soul, she almost conceived 
in that delicate flattery a new affront. 

I said she was denied to all ; but there was one exception, 
there was one person who would not be denied, assuming over 
her actions and her house something like the authority of a par- 
ent ; Arbaces, for himself, claimed an exemption from all the 
ceremonies observed by others. He entered the threshold with 
a license of one who feels that he is privileged and at home. 
He made his way to her solitude, and with that sort of quiet 
and unapologetic air which seemed to consider the right as a 
thing of course. With all the independence of lone’s character, 
his art had enabled him to obtain a secret and powerful control 
over her mind. She could not shake it off ; sometimes she 
desired to do so ; but she never actively struggled against it. 
She was fascinated by his serpent eye. He arrested, he com- 
manded her, by the magic of a mind long accustomed to awe 
and to subdue. Utterly unaware of his real character or his 
hidden love, she felt for him the reverence which genius feels 
for wisdom, and virtue for sanctity. She regarded him as one 
of those mighty sages of old, who attained to the mysteries of 
knowledge by an exemption from the passions of their kind. 
She scarcely considered him as a being, like herself, of the earth, 
but as an oracle at once dark and sacred. She did not love 
him, but she feared. His presence was unwelcome to her ; it 
dimmed her spirit even in its brightest mood ; he seemed, with 
his chilling and lofty aspect, like some eminence which casts a 
shadow over the sun. But she never thought of forbidding his 
visits. She was passive under the influence which created in 
her breast, not the repugnance, but something of the stillness 
of terror. 

Arbaces himself now resolved to exert all his arts to pos- 
sess himself of that treasure he so burningly coveted. He was 
cheered and elated by his conquest over her brother. From 
the hour in which Apaecides fell beneath the voluptuous sorcery 
of that fete which we have described, he felt his empire ovei 
the young priest triumphant and insured. He knew that there 
is no victim so thoroughly subdued as a young and fervent 
man for the first time delivered to the thraldom of the senses. 

When Apaecides recovered, with the morning light, from the 
profound sleep which succeeded to the delirium of wonder and 
of pleasure, he was, it is true, ashamed — terrified — appalled. 
His vows of austerity and celibacy echoed in his ear ; his thirst 
after holiness — had it been quenched at so unhallow ^d a stream ? 
But Arbaces knew w^ell the means by which to confirm his con- 
quest. From the arts of pleasure he led the young priest at 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPE/L 


lit 


once to those of his mysterious wisdom. He bared to hia 
amazed eyes the initiatory secrets of the sombre philosophy of 
the Nile — those secrets plucked from the stars, and the wild 
chemistry, which, in those days, when Reason herself was but 
the creature of Imagination, might well pass for the lore of a 
diviner magic. He seemed to the young eyes of the priest as a 
being above mortality, and endowed with supernatural gifts. 
That yearning and intense desire for the knowledge which is 
not of earth — which had burned from his boyhood in the heart 
of the priest — was dazzled, until it confused and mastered his 
clearer sense. He gave himself to the art which thus addressed 
at once the two strongest of human passions, that of pleasure 
and that of knowledge. He was loth to believe that one so wise . 
could err, that one so lofty could stoop to deceive. Entangled 
in the dark web of metaphysical moralities, he caught at the 
excuse by which the Egyptian converted vice into a virtue. 
His pride was insensibly flattered that Arbaces had deigned 
to rank him with himself, to set him apart from the laws which 
bound the vulgar, to make him an august participator, both in 
the mystic studies and the magic fascinations of the Egyptian’s 
solitude. The pure and stern lessons of that creed to which 
Olinthus had sought to make him convert, were swept away 
from his memory by the deluge of new passions. And th I^p- 
tian, who was versed in the articles of that true faith, and who 
soon learned from his pupil the effect which had been produced 
upon him by its believers, sought, not unskilfully, to undo that 
effect, by a tone of reasoning, half-sarcastic and half-earnest. 

“ This faith,” said he, “ is but a borrowed plagiarism from 
one of the many allegories invented by our priests of old. Ob- 
serve,” he added, pointing to a hieroglyphical scroll, — “ob- 
serve in these ancient figures the origin of the Christian’s 
Trinity. Here are also three gods — the Deity, the Spirit, and 
the Son. Observe that the epithet of the son is ‘ Saviour,’ — 
observe, that the sign by which his human qualities are de-1 
noted is the cross.* Note here, too, the mystic history of 
Osiris, how he put on death ; how he lay in the grave ; and how, 
thus fulfilling a solemn atonement, he rose again from the 
dead ! In these stories we but design to paint an allegory from 
the operations of nature and the evolutions of the eternal 
heavens. But, the allegory unknown, the types themselves 
have furnished to credulous nations the materials of many 
creeds. They have travelled to the vast plains of India ; they 

* The believer will draw from this vague coincidence a very different corol. 
laiy from that of the Egyptian. 


112 


THE LAST DA YS OP POMPETT. 


have mixed themselves up ’n the visionary speculations of the 
Greek ; becoming more and more gross and embodied, as they 
emerge farther from the shadows of their antique origin, they 
have a-ssumed a human and palpable form in this novel faith ; 
and the believers of Galilee are but the unconscious repeaters 
of one of the superstitions of the Nile ! ” 

This was the last argument which completely subdued the 
priest. It was necessary to him, as to all, to believe in some- 
thing ; and undivided and at last, unreluctant, he surrendered 
himself to that belief which Arbaces inculcated, and which all 
that was human in passion — all that was flattering in vanity- 
all that was alluring in pleasure, served to invite to, and con- 
tributed to confirm. 

This conquest, thus easily made, the Egyptian could now 
give himself wholly up to the pursuit of a far dearer and 
mightier object ; and he hailed, in his success with the brother 
an omen of his triumph over the sister. 

Ke had seen lone on the day following the revel we have 
witnessed ; and which was also the day after he had poisoned 
her mind against his rival. The next day, and the next, he 
saw her also : and each time he laid himself out with consum- 
mate art, partly to confirm her impression against Glaucus, 
and principally to prepare her for the impressions he desired 
her to receive. The proud lone took care to conceal the 
anguish she endured ; and the pride of woman has an hypo- 
crisy which can deceive the most penetrating, and shame the 
most astute. But Arbaces was no less cautious not to recur 
to a subject which he felt it was most politic to treat as of the 
lightest importance. He knew that by dwelling much upon 
the fault of a rival, you only give him dignity in the eyes of 
your mistress ; the wisest plan is, neither loudly to hate, nor 
bitterly to contemn ; the wisest plan is to lower him by an in- 
difference of tone, as if you could not dream that he could be 
loved. Your safety is in concealing the wound to your own 
pride, and imperceptibly alarming that of the umpire, whose 
voice is fate 1 Such, in all times, will be the policy of one who 
knows the science of the sex — it was now the Egyptian’s. 

He recurred no more, then, to the presumption of Glaucus ; 
he mentioned his name, but not more often than that of Clodius 
or of Lepidus. He affected to class them together, as things 
of a low and ephemeral species ; as things wanting nothir>g of 
the butterfly, save its innocence and its grace. Sometime?; he 
slightly alluded to some invented debauch, in which he declared 
sometimes he adverted to them as the an- 
^odes of those lofty and spiritual natures, to whose order 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


“3 

that of lone belonged. Blinded alike by the pride of lone, 
and perhaps, by his own, he dreamed not that she already 
loved ; but he dreaded lest she might have formed for Glaucua 
the first fluttering prepossessions that lead to love. And, se* 
cretly, he ground his teeth in rage and jealousy, when he re- 
flected on the . youth, the fascinations, and the brilliancy of that 
formidable rival whom he pretended to undervalue. 

It was on the fourth day from the date of the close of the 
previous book, that Arbaces and lone sat together. 

“ You wear your veil at home,” said the Egyptian ; ‘‘that is 
not fair to those whom you honor with your friendship.” 

“ But to Arbaces,” answered lone, who, indeed, had cast the 
veil over her features to conceal eyes red with weeping, — “ to 
Arbaces, who looks only to the mind, what matters it that the 
face is concealed ? ” 

“ I do look only to the mind,” replied the Egyptian : “ show 
me then your face — ^for there I shall see it ! ” 

“ You grow gallant in the air of Pompeii,” said lone, with a 
forced tone of gayety. 

“ Do you think, fair lone, that it is only at Pon veii that I 
have learned to value you ? ” The Egyptian’s voice trembled 
— ^he paused for a moment, and then resumed. 

“ There is a love, beautiful Greek, which is not the love only 
of the thoughtless and the young — there is a love which sees not 
with the eyes, which hears not with the ears ; but in which soul 
is enamored of soul. The countryman of thy ancestors, the 
cave-nursed Plato, dreamed of such a love — his followers have 
sought to imitate it ; but it is a love that is not for the herd to 
echo — it is a love that only high and noble natures can conceive 
—-it hath nothing in common with the sympathies and ties of 
coarse affection ; — wrinkles do not revolt it — homeliness of 
feature does not deter ; it asks youth, it is true, but it asks it 
^nly in the freshness of the emotions ; it asks beauty, it is true, 
but it is the beauty of the thought and of the spirit. Such is 
the love, O lone, which is a worthy offering to thee from the 
cold and the austere. Austere and cold thou deemest me — 
such is the love that I venture to lay upon thy shrine — thou 
canst receive it without a blush.” 

“ And its name is friendship ! ” replied lone : her answer 
was innocent, yet it sounded like the reproof of one conscious 
of the design of the speaker. 

“ Friendship ! ” said Arbaces, vehemently. “ No ; that is 
a word too often profaned to apply to a sentiment so sacred. 
Friendship ! it is a tie that binds fools and profligates ! Friend- 
ship ! it is the bond that unites the frivolous b^its of a Glau- 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


I14 

Cus and Clodius ! Friendship ! no, that is an affection of earth, 
of vulgar habits and sordid sympathies ; the feeling of which I 
speak is borrowed from the stars * — it partakes of that mystic 
and ineffable yearning, which we feel when we gaze on them 
— it burns, yet it purifies, — it is the lamp of naphtha in the ala- 
baster vase, glowing with fragrant odors, but shining onl^^ 
through the purest vessels. No : it is not love, and it is not 
friendship, that Arbaces feels for lone. Give it no name — earth 
has no name for it — it is not of earth — why debase it with earthly 
epithets and earthly associations ? ” 

Never before had Arbaces ventured so far, yet he felt his 
ground step by step ; he knew that he uttered a language which, 
if at this day of affected platonisms it would speak unequivo- 
cally to the ears of beauty, was at that time strange and un- 
familiar, to which no precise idea could be attached, from which 
he could imperceptibly advance or recede, as occasion suited, 
as hope encouraged or fear deterred. lone trembled, though 
she knew not why ; her veil hid her features, and masked an 
expression, which, if seen by the Egyptian, would have at once 
damped and enraged him ; in fact, he never was more dis- 
pleasing to her — the harmonious modulation of the most suasive 
voice that ever distinguished unhallowed thought fell discord- 
antly on her ear. Her whole soul was still filled with the image 
of Glaucus ; and the accent of tenderness from another only 
revolted and dismayed ; yet she did not conceive that any pas- 
sion more ardent than that platonism which Arbaces expressed 
lurked beneath his words. She thought that he, in truth, spoke 
only of the affection and sympathy of the soul ; but was it not 
precisely that affection and that sympathy which had made a 
part of those emotions she felt for Glaucus ; and could any 
other footsteps than his approach the haunted adytus of her 
heart ? 

Anxious at once to change the conversation, she replied, 
therefore, with a cold and indifferent voice, “Whomsoever 
Arbaces honors with the sentiment of esteem, it is natural that 
his elevated wisdom should color that sentiment with its own 
hues ; it is natural that his friendship should be purer than that 
of others, whose pursuits and errors he does not deign to share. 
But tell me, Arbaces, hast thou seen my brother of late ? Ho 
has not visited me for several days ; and when I last saw him, 
his manner disturbed and alarmed me much. I fear lest he 
was too precipitate in the severe choice that he has adoptedi 
and that he repents an irrevocable step.” 


Plato 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


“5 

“ Be cheered, lone,” replied the Egyptian. ** It is true, that 
some little time since he was troubled and sad of spirit ; those 
doubts beset him which were likely to haunt one of that fervent 
temperament, which ever ebbs and flows, and vibrates between 
excitement and exhaustion. But he^ lone, he came to me in his 
anxieties and his distress ; he sought one who pitied and loved 
him ; I have calmed his mind — I have removed his doubts — I 
have taken him from the threshold of Wisdom into its temple ; 
and before the majesty of the goddess his soul is hushed and 
soothed. Fear not, he will repent no more ; they who trust 
themselves to Arbaces never repent but for a moment.” 

“ You rejoice me,” answered lone. “ My dear brother, in 
his contentment I am happy.” 

The conversation then turned upon lighter subjects ; the 
Egyptian exerted himself to please, he condescended even to 
entertain ; the vast variety of his knowledge enabled him to 
adorn and light up every subject on which he touched ; and 
lone, forgetting the displeasing effect of his former words, was 
carried away, despite her sadness, by the magic of his intellect. 
Her manner became unrestrained and her language fluent ; 
and Arbaces, who had waited his opportunity, now hastened to 
seize it. 

“You have never seen,” said he, “the interior of my home. ; 
it may amuse you to do so : it contains some rooms that may 
explain to you what you have often asked me to describe — th& 
fashion of an Egyptian house ; not, indeed, that you will per- 
ceive in the poor and minute proportions of Roman architec- 
ture the massive strength, the vast space, the gigantic mag- 
nificence, or even the domestic construction of the palaces of 
Thebes and Memphis ; but something there is, here and there, 
that may serve to express to you some notion of that antique 
civilization which has humanized the world. Devote, then, to 
the austere friend of your youth, one of these bright summer 
evenings, and let me boast that my gloomy mansion has been 
honored with the presence of the admired lone.” Unconscious 
of the pollutions of the mansion, of the danger that awaited 
her, lone readily assented to the proposal. The next evening 
was fixed for the visit ; and the Egyptian, with a serene counte- 
nance, and a heart beating with fierce and unholy joy, departed. 
Scarce had he gone, when another visitor claimed admission.— 
But now we return to Glaucus 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


<f6 


CHAPTER V. 

The poor tortoise. — New changes for Nydia. 

The morning sun shone over the small and odorous den en. 
closed within the peristyle of the house of the Athenian. He 
lay reclined, sad and listlessly, on the smooth grass which in 
tersected the viridarium ; and a slight canopy stretched above, 
broke the fierce rays of the summer sun. 

When that fairy mansion was first disinterred from the 
earth; they found in the garden the shell of a tortoise that had 
been its inmate.* That animal, so strange a link in the crea- 
tion, to which Nature seems to have denied all the pleasures 
of life, save life’s passive and dream-like perception, had been 
the guest of the place for years before Glaucus purchased it ; 
for years, indeed, which went beyond the memory of man, and 
to which tradition assigned an almost incredible date. The 
house had been built and rebuilt — its possessors had changed 
and fluctuated — ^generations had flourished and decayed — and 
still the tortoise dragged on its slow and unsympathizing ex- 
istence. In the earthquake, which sixteen years before had 
overthrown many of the public buildings of the city, and scared 
away the amazed inhabitants, the house now inhabited by 
Glaucus had been terribly shattered. The possessors deserted 
it for many days ; on their return they cleared away the ruins 
which encumbered the viridarium, and found still the tortoise, 
unharmed and unconscious of the surrounding destruction. 
It seemed to bear a charmed life in its languid blood and im- 
perceptible motions ; yet was it not so inactive as it seemed : 
it held a regular and monotonous course ; inch by inch it 
traversed the little orbit of its domain, taking months to ac- 
complish the whole gyration. It was a restless voyager, that 
tortoise ! — patiently, and with pain, did it perform its self-ap- 
pointed journeys, evincing no interest in the things around it 
— a philosopher concentrated in itself. There was something 
grand in its solitary selfishness ! — the sun in which it basked 
— ^the waters poured daily over it — ^the air, which it insensibly 
inhaled, were its sole and unfailing luxuries. The mild 

♦ I do not know whether it be still preserved (I hope so), but the shell of 
a tortoise was found in the house appropriated, in this to Glaucus. 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


”7 

changes of the season, in that lovely clime, affected it not. It 
covered itself with its shell — as the saint in his piety — as the 
sage in his wisdom — as the lover in his hope. 

It was impervious to the shocks and mutations of time — i* 
was an emblem of time itself : slow, regular, perpetual ; unwitting 
of the passions that fret themselves around — of the wear and 
tear of mortality. The poor tortoise ! nothing less than the 
bursting of volcanoes, the convulsions of the riven world, 
could have quenched its sluggish spark ! The inexorable 
Death, that spared not pomp or beauty, passed unheedingly by 
a thing to which death could bring so insignificant a change. 

For this animal, the mercurial and vivid Greek felt all th; 
wonder and affection of contrast. He could spend hours in 
surveying its creeping progress, in moralizing over its mechan- 
ism. He despised it in joy — he envied it in sorrow. 

Regarding it now as he lay along the sward, its dull mass 
moving while it seemed motionless, the Athenian murmured 
to himself : — 

“ The eagle dropped a stone from its talons, thinking to 
break thy shell : the stone crushed the head of a poet. This 
is the allegory of Fate ! Dull thing ! Thou hadst a father and 
a mother ; perhaps, ages ago, thou thyself hadst a mate. Did 
thy parents love, or didst thou ? Did thy slow blood circulate 
more gladly when thou didst creep to the side of thy wedded 
one ? Wert thou capable of affection ? Could it distress thee 
if she were away from thy side ? Couldst thou feel when she 
was present ? What would I not give to know the history of 
thy mailed breast — to gaze upon the mechanism of thy faint 
desires — to mark what hairbreadth difference separates thy 
sorrow from thy joy! Yet, methinks, thou wouldst know if 
lone were present ! Thou wouldst feel her coming like a hap- 
pier air — like a gladder sun. I envy thee, now, for thou 
knowest not that she is absent ; and I — would I could be like 
thee — between the intervals of seeing her ! What doubt, what 
presentiment, haunts me ! why will she not admit me ? Days 
have passed since I heard her voice. For the first time, life 
grows flat to me. I am as one who is left alone at a banquet, 
the lights dead, and the flowers faded. Ah I lone, couldst 
thou dream how I adore thee ! ” 

From these enamored reveries, Glaucus was interrupted 
by the entrance of Nydia. She came with her light, though 
cautious step, along the marble tablinum. She passed the 
portico, and paused at the flowers which bordered the garden. 
She had her water-vase in her hand, and she sprinkled the 
thirsting plants, which seemed to brighten at her approach. 


1 18 THE LAST DA YS k/F POMFFII. 

She bent to inhale their odor. She touched them timidly and 
caressingly. She felt, along their stems, if any withered leaf 
or creeping insect marred their beauty. And as she hovered 
from flower to flower, with her earnest and youthful counte- 
nance and graceful motions, you could not have imagined a 
litter handmaid for the goddess of the garden. 

“ Nydia, my child ! ” said Glaucus. 

At the sound of his voice she paused at once — listening, 
blushing, breathless ; with her lips parted, her face upturned 
to catch the direction of sound, she laid down the vase — she 
hastened to him : and wonderful it was to see how unerringly 
she threaded her dark way through the flowers, and came by 
the shortest path to the side of her new lord. 

Nydia,” said Glaucus, tenderly stroking back her long 
and beautiful hair, ** it is now three days since thou hast been 
under the protection of my household gods. Have they smiled 
on thee ? Art thou happy ? ” 

“ Ah I so happy 1 ” sighed the slave. 

And now,” continued Glaucus, “ that thou hast recovered 
somewhat from the hateful recollections of thy former state, 
— and now that they have fitted thee [touching her broidered 
tunic] with garments more meet for thy delicate shape, — and 
now, sweet child, that thou hast accustomed thyself to a hap 
piness, which may the gods grant thee ever 1 I am about to 
pray at thy hands a boon.” 

“ Oh ! what can I do for thee ? ” said Nydia, clasping het 
hands. 

“ Listen,” said Glaucus, “ and young as thou art, thou shalt 
be my confidant. Hast thou ever heard the name of lone ?” 

The blind girl gasped for breath, and turning pale as one 
of the statues which shone upon them from the peristyle, sh© 
answered with an effort, and after a moment’s pause, 

“ Yes ! I have heard that she is of Neapolis, and beautiful.” 

‘‘Beautiful! her beauty is a thing to dazzle the day. Nea- 
polis ! nay, she is Greek by origin ; Greece only could furnish 
forth such shapes. Nydia, I love her ! ” 

“ I thought so,” replied Nydia calmly. 

“ I love, and thou shalt tell her so. I am about to send 
thee to her. Happy Nydia, thou wilt be in her chamber — thou 
wilt drink the music of her voice — thou wilt bask in the sunny 
air of her presence 1 ” 

“ What ! what ! wilt thou send me from thee ? ” 

“ Thou wilt go to lone,” answered Glaucus, in a tone that 
said, “ What more canst thou desire ? ” 

Nydia burst into tears. 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


119 

Glaucus, raising himself, drew her towards him with the 
soothing caresses of a brother. 

“ My child, my Nydia, thou weepestin ignorance of the hap- 
piness I bestow on thee. She is gentle, and kind, and soft as 
the breeze of spring. She will be a sister to thy youth — she 
will appreciate thy winning talents — she will love thy simple 
graces as none other could, for they are like her own. Weepest 
thou still, fond fool ? I will not force thee, sweet. Wilt thou 
not do for me this kindness ? 

“ Well, if I can serve thee, command. See, I weep no longer 

am calm.” 

“That is my own Nydia,” continued Glaucus, kissing her 
hand. “ Go, then, to her : if thou art disappointed in her kind- 
ness — if I have deceived thee, return when thou wilt. I do not 
^ive thee to another : I but lend. My home ever be thy refuge, 
sweet one. Ah ! would it could shelter all the friendless and 
distressed ! But if my heart whispers truly, I shall claim thee 
again soon, my child. My home and lone’s will become the 
same, and thou shalt dwell with both.” 

A shiver passed through the slight frame of the blind girl, 
but she wept no more — she was resigned. 

“Go, then, my Nydia, to lone’s house — they shall show thee 
the way. Take her the fairest flowers thou canst pluck ; the 
vase which contains them I will give thee : thou must excuse 
its unworthiness. Thou shalt take, too, with thee the lute that 
I gave thee yesterday, and from which thou knowest so well 
to awaken the charming spirit. Thou shalt give her also 
this letter, in which, after a hundred efforts, I have embodied 
something of my thoughts. Let thy ear catch every accent— 
every modulation of her voice, and tell me, when we meet again, 
if its music should flatter me or discourage. It is now, Nydia, 
some days since I have been admitted to lone : there is some- 
thing mysterious in this exclusion. I am distracted with doubts 
and fears ; learn — for thou art quick, and thy care for me will 
sharpen tenfold thy acuteness — learn the cause of this unkind- 
ness ; speak of me as often as thou canst ; let my name come 
ever to thy lips ; insinuate how I love, rather than proclaim it ; 
watch if she sighs whilst thou speakest, if she answer thee ; or 
if she reproves, in what accents she reproves. Be my friend, 
plead for me ; and oh ! how vastly wilt thou overpay the little I 
have done for thee ! Thou comprehendest, Nydia ; thou art 
yet a child — have I said more than thou canst understand?” 

“ No.” 

“ And thou wilt serve me ? ” 

“Yes.” 


120 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


“ Come to me when thou hast gathered the flowers, and I 
will give thee the vase I speak of ; seek me in the chamber of 
Leda. Pretty one, thou dost not grieve now ? ” 

“ Glaucus, I am a slave ; what business have I with grief ctt 
joy ? ” 

“ Sayest thou so ? No, Nydia, be free. I give thee free- 
dom : enjoy it as thou wilt, and pardon me that I reckoned on 
thy desire to serve me.” 

“ You are offended. Oh ! I would not, for that which no 
freedom can give, offend you, Glaucus. My guardian, my 
saviour, my protector, forgive the poor blind girl ! She does 
not grieve even in leaving thee, if she can contribute to thy hap 
piness.” 

May the gods bless this grateful heart ! ” said Glaucus, 
greatly moved ; and, unconscious of the fires he excited, he 
repeatedly kissed her forehead. 

“ Thou forgivest me,” said she, — “ and thou wilt talk no 
more of freedom ; my happiness is to be thy slave : thou hast 
promised thou wilt not give me to another ” 

“ I have promised.” 

“ And now, then, I will gather the flowers.” 

Silently, Nydia took from the hand of Glaucus, the costly 
and jewelled vase, in which the flowers vied with each other 
in hue and fragrance ; fearlessly she received his parting ad- 
monition. She paused for a moment when his voice ceased — 
she did not trust herself to reply — she sought his hand — she 
raised it to her lips, dropped her veil over her face, and passed 
at once from his presence. She paused again as she reached the 
threshold ; she stretched her hands towards it, and murmured, — 

“ Three happy days — days of unspeakable delight, have I 
known since I passed thee — blessed threshold ! may peace dwell 
ever with thee when I am gone ! And now, my heart teare 
itself from thee, and the only sound it utters bids me — die I ^ 


CHAPTER VI. 

The happy beauty and the blind slave. 

A SLAVE entered the chamber of lone. A messenger from 
Glaucus desired to be admitted, 
lone hesitated an instant. 

“ She is blind, that messenger,” said the slave ; “ she wiU 
do her commission to none but thee.” 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


121 


Base is that heart which does not respect affliction ! The 
moment she heard the messenger was blind, lone felt the im- 
possibility of returning a chilling reply. Glaucus had chosen 
a herald that was indeed sacr^ — a herald that could not be 
denied. 

“ What can he want with me ? what message can he send ? 
and the heart of lone beat quick. The curtain across the door 
was withdrawn ; a soft and echoless step fell upon the marble ; 
and Nydia, led by one of the attendants, entered with her 
precious gift. 

She stood still a moment, as if listening for some sound 
that might direct her. 

“ Will the noble lone,^’ said she, in a soft and low voice, 
“ deign to speak, that I may know whither to steer these 
benighted steps, and that I may lay my offerings at her 
feet?” 

“ Fair child,” said lone, touched and soothingly, “ give 
not thyself the pain to cross these slippery floors, my attend- 
ant will bring to me what thou hast to present ; ” and she 
motioned to the handmaid to take the vase. 

“ I may give these flowers to none but thee,” answered 
Nydia ; and, guided by her ear, she walked slowly to the place 
where lone sat, and kneeling when she came before her, prof- 
fered the vase. 

lone took it from her hand, and placed it on the table at 
her side. She then raised her gently, and would have seated 
her on the couch, but the girl modestly resisted. 

I have not yet discharged my office,” said she ; and she 
drew the letter of Glaucus from her vest. “This will, per- 
haps, explain why he who sent me chose so unworthy a mes- 
senger to lone.” 

The Neapolitan took the letter with a hand, the trembling 
of which Nydia at once felt and sighed to feel. With folded 
arms, and downcast looks, she stood before the proud and 
stately form of lone ; — no less proud, perhaps, in her attitude 
of submission. lone waved her hand, and the attendants 
withdrew ; she gazed again upon the form of the young slave 
in surprise and beautiful compassion; then, retiring a little 
from her, she opened and read the following letter : — 

“ Glaucus to lone sends more than he dares to utter. Is 
lone ill ? thy slaves tell me ‘ No,’ and that assurance comforts 
me. Has Glaucus offended lone t — ah ! that question I may 
not ask from them. For five days I have been banished from 
thy presence. Has the sun shone ? — I know it not. Has the 


122 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


sky smiled ? — it has had no smile for me. My sun and my skj 
are lone. Do I offend thee ? Am I too bold ? Do I say that 
on the tablet which my tongue has hesitated to breathe ? Alas ! 
it is in thine absence that I feel most the spells by which thou 
hast subdued me. And absence, that deprives me of joy, 
brings me courage. Thou wilt not see me ; thou hast banished 
also the common flatterers that flock around thee. Canst thou 
confound me with them ? It is not possible ! Thou knowest 
too well that I am not of them — that their clay is not mine. 
For even were I of the humblest mould, the fragrance of the 
rose has penetrated me, and the spirit of thy nature hath 
passed within me, to embalm, to sanctify, to inspire. Have 
they slandered me to thee, lone ? Thou wilt not believe them. 
Did the Delphic oracle itself tell me thou wert unworthy, I 
would not believe it ; and am I less incredulous than thou ? I 
think of the last time we met — of the song which I sang to 
thee — of the look that thou gavest me in return. Disguise it 
as thou wilt, lone, there is something kindred between us, and 
our eyes acknowledged it, though our lips were silent. Deign 
to see me, to listen to me, and after that exclude me if thou 
wilt. I meant not so soon to say I loved. But those words 
rush to my heart — they will have way. Accept, then, my 
homage and my vows. We met first at the shrine of Pallas ; 
shall we not meet before a softer and a more ancient altar ? 

“ Beautiful I adored lone ! If my hot youth and my Athe- 
nian blood have misguided and allured me, they have but 
taught my wanderings to appreciate the rest — the haven they 
have attained. I hang up my dripping robes on the Sea-god’s 
shrine. I have escaped shipwreck. I have found thee. lone, 
deign to see me ; thou art gentle to strangers, wilt thou be 
less merciful to those of thine own land ? I await thy reply. 
Accept the flowers which I send — their sweet breath has a 
language more eloquent than words. They take from the sun 
the odors they return — they are the emblem of the love that 
receives and repays tenfold — the emblem of the heart that 
drank thy rays, and owes to thee the germ of the treasures 
that it proffers to thy smile. I send these by one whom thou 
wilt receive for her own sake, if not for mine. She, like us^ 
is a stranger ; her father’s ashes lie under brighter skies : but, 
less happy th2,n we, she is blind and a slave. Poor Nydia ! I 
seek as much as possible to repair to her the cruelties of Na- 
ture and of Fate, in asking permission to place her with thee. 
She is gentle, quick, and docile. She is skilled in music and 
the song ; und she is a very Chloris * to the flowers. She 
♦ The Greek Flora. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


123 

thinks, lone, that thou wilt love her : if thou dost not, send 
her back to me. 

“ One word more — let me be bold, lone. Why thinkest 
thou so highly of yon dark Egyptian ! he hath not about him 
the air of honest men. We Greeks learn mankind from our 
cradle ; we are not the less profound, in that we affect no 
sombre mien : our lips smile, but our eyes are grave — they ob- 
serve — they note — they study. Arbaces is not one to be 
credulously trusted : can it be that he hath wronged me to thee ? 
I think it, for I left him with thee ; thou sawest how my pres- 
ence stung him ; since then thou hast not admitted me. Be- 
lieve nothing that he can say to my disfavor ; if thou dost, 
tell me so at once ; for this lone owes to Glaucus. Farewell ! 
this letter touches thy hand ; these characters meet thine eyes 
— shall they be more blessed than he who is their author? 
Once more, farewell ! ” 

It seemed to lone, as she read this letter, as if a mist had 
fallen from her eyes. What had been the supposed offence of 
Glaucus — that he had not really loved ! And now, plainly, 
and in no dubious terms, he confessed that love. From that 
moment, his power was fully restored. At every tender word 
in that letter, so full of romantic and trustful passion, her 
heart smote her. And had she doubted his faith, and had she 
believed another ? and had she not, at least, allowed to him 
the culprit’s right to know his crime, to plead in his defence ? 
^the tears rolled down her cheeks — she kissed the letter — 
she placed it in her bosom ; and turning to Nydia, who stood 
in the same place and in the same posture : — 

“ Wilt thou sit, my child,” said she, ** while I write an 
answer to this letter ? ” 

“ You will answer it, then ! ” said Nydia coldly. “ Well, 
the slave that accompanied me will take back your answer ! ” 

“ For you,” said lone, “ stay with me — trust me, your ser- 
vice shall be light.” 

Nydia bowed her head. 

“ What is your name, fair girl ? ” 

“ They call me Nydia.” 

“ Your country > ” 

“ The land of Olympus — Thessaly.” 

“ Thou shalt be to me a friend,” said lone, caressingly, 
“ as thou art already a countrywoman. Meanwhile, I beseech 
thee, stand not on these cold and glassy marbles. — ^Therel 
now that thou art seated, I can leave thee for an instant.” 

“ lone to Glaucus greeting. — Come to me Glaucus,” wrote 


124 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


lone — “ Come to me to-morrow. I may have been unjust tc 
thee ; but I will tell thee, at least, the fault that has been im- 
puted to thy charge. Fear not, henceforth, the Egyptian — ■ 
fear none. Thou sayest thou hast expressed too much — alas 1 
in these hasty words I have already done so. Farewell ! ” 

As lone reappeared with the letter, which she did not dare 
to read after she had written (Ah ! common rashness, common 
timidity of love !) — Nydia started from her seat. 

“ You have written to Glaucus ? ” 

“ I have.” 

“ And will he thank the messenger who gives him thy 
letter ? ” 

lone forgot that her companion was blind ; she blushed 
from the brow to the neck, and remained silent. 

“ I mean this,” added Nydia, in a calmer tone ; ‘‘ the light- 
est word of coldness from thee will sadden him — the lightest 
kindness will rejoice. If it be the first, let the slave take back 
thine answer; if it be the last, let me — I will return this 
evening.” 

“ And why, Nydia,” asked lone, evasively, “ wouldst thou 
be the bearer of my letter ? ” 

“ It is so, then ! ” said Nydia. “ Ah ! how could it be 
otherwise ; who could be unkind to Glaucus ? ” 

“ My child,” said lone, a little more reservedly than be- 
fore, “thou speakest warmly — Glaucus, then, is amiable in 
thine eyes ? ” 

“ Noble lone ! Glaucus has been that to me which neither 
fortune nor the gods has been — a friend.'^ 

The sadness mingled with dignity with which Nydia uttered 
these simple words, affected the beautiful lone ; she bent down 
and kissed her. “ Thou art grateful, and deservedly so : why 
should I blush to say that Glaucus is worthy of thy gratitude"? 
Go, my Nydia — take to him thyself this letter — -but return again. 
If I am from home when thou returnest — as this evening, per- 
haps, I shall be — thy chamber shall be prepared next my own. 
Nydia, I have no sister — ^wilt thou be one to me ? ” 

The Thessalian kissed the hand of lone, and then said with 
some embarrassment — 

“ One favor, fair lone — may I dare to ask it ? ” 

“ Thou canst not ask what I will not grant,” replied the Nea- 
politan. 

“They tell me,” said Nydia, “that thou art beautiful beyond 
the loveliness of earth. Alas ! I cannot see that which gladdens 
the world ! Wilt thou suffer me, then, to pass my hand ovel 


THE LAST DA Yss OF POMPEII. 


*25 

thy face ? — ^that is my sole criterion of beauty, and I usually guess 
aright.’* 

She did not wait for the answer of lone, but, as she spoke, 
gently and slowly passed her hand over the bending and.half- 
averted features of the Greek — features which but one image in 
the world can yet depicture and recall — that image is the muti- 
lated, but all-wondrous, statue in her native city — her own Ne- 
apolis ; — that Parian face, before which all the beauty of the 
Florentine Venus is poor and earthly — that aspect so full of har- 
mony — of youth — of genius — of the soul — ^which modern critics 
have supposed the representation of Psyche.* 

Her touch lingered over the braided hair and polished brow 
— over the downy and damask cheek — over the dimpled lip — 
the swan-like and whitest neck. “ I know now that thou art 
beautiful,” she said ; “ and I can picture thee to my darkness 
henceforth, and forever ! ” 

When Nydia left her, lone sank into a deep but delicious 
reverie. Glaucus then loved her ; he owned it — yes, he loved 
her. She drew forth again that dear confession ; she paused 
over every word, she kissed every line ; she did not ask why he 
had been maligned, she only felt assured that he had been so. 
She wondered how she had ever believed a syllable against him ; 
she wondered how the Egyptian had been enabled to exercise 
a power against Glaucus ; she felt a chill creep over her as sh® 
again turned to his warning against Arbaces, and her secret fea^ 
of that gloomy being darkened into awe. She was awakeneci 
from these thoughts by her maidens, who came to announce to 
her that the hour appointed to visit Arbaces was arrived ; »he 
started, she had forgotten the promise. Her first impression 
was to renounce it ; her second, was to laugh at her own fears 
of her eldest surviving friend. She hastened to add the usual 
ornaments to her dress, and doubtful whether she should yet 
question the Egyptian more closely with respect to his accusation 
of Glaucus, or whether she should wait till, without citing tne 
authority, she should insinuate to Glaucus the accusation itself, 
she took her way to the gloomy mansion of Arbaces. 

* The wonderful remains of the statue so called in the Museo Borbonica 
The face, for sentiment and for feature, is the most beautiful of a)* 
ancient sculpture has bequeathed to us. 


126 


TBE LAST DA VS OF FOMFEIL 


CHAPTER VII. 

looe entrapped — ^The mouse tries to gnaw the net 

** O DEAREST Nydia 1 ” exclaimed Glaucus, as he read the 
letter of lone, “ whitest-robed messenger that ever passed be- 
tween earth and heaven — how, how shall I thank thee ? ” 

“ I am rewarded,” said the poor Thessalian. 

“ To-morrow — to-morrow ! how shall I while the hours till 
then ? ” 

The enamored Greek would not let Nydia escape him, 
though she sought several times to leave the chamber ; he 
made her recite to him over and over again, every syllable of 
the brief conversation that had taken place between her and 
lone ; a thousand times, forgetting her misfortune, he ques- 
tioned her of the looks, of the countenance of his beloved; 
and then quickly again excusing his fault, he bade her recom- 
mence the whole recital which he had thus interrupted. The 
hours thus painful to Nydia passed rapidly and delightfully 
to him, and the twilight had already darkened ere he once 
more dismissed her to lone with a fresh letter and w'ith new 
flowers. Scarcely had she gone, than Clodius and several of 
his gay companions broke in upon him ; they rallied him on 
his seclusion during the whole day, and his absence from his 
customary haunts ; they invited him to accompany them to the 
various resorts in that lively city, which night and day proffered 
diversity to pleasure. Then as now, in the south (for no land, 
perhaps, losing more of greatness has retained more of custom), 
It was the delight of the Italians to assemble at the evening ; 
and, under the porticoes of temples or the shades of the groves 
that interspersed the streets, listening to music or the recitals 
of some inventive tale-teller, they hailed the rising moon with 
libations of wine and melodies of song. Glaucus was too 
happy to be unsocial ; he longed to cast off the exuberance of 
joy that oppressed him. He willingly accepted the proposal 
of his comrades, and laughingly they sallied out together 
down the populous and glittering streets. 

In the meantime Nydia once more gained the house of 
lone, who had long left it ; she inquired indifferently whithe? 
lone had gone. 

The answer am^sted and appalled her. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


127 

** To the house of Arbaces — of the Egyptian ? Impossible ! ’* 

“ It is true, my little one,” said the slave, who had replied 
to her question. “ She has known the Egyptian long.” 

“ Long ! ye gods, yet Glaucus loves her ! ” murmured 
Nydia to herself. 

“ And has,” asked she aloud, — “ has she often visited him 
before ? ” 

“ Never till now,” answered the slave. “ If all the ru- 
mored scandal of Pompeii be true, it would be better, perhaps, 
if she had not ventured there at present. But she, poor mis- 
tress mine, hears nothing of that which reaches us ; the talk 
of the vestibulum reaches not to the peristyle.” * 

“ Never till now ! ” repeated Nydia. “ Art thou sure ? ” 

“ Sure, pretty one : but what is that to thee or to us ? ” 

Nydia hesitated a moment, and then, putting down the 
flowers with which she had been charged, she called to the 
slave who had accompanied her, and left the house without 
saying another word. 

Not till she had got half-way back to the house of Glaucus 
did she break silence, and even then she only murmured inly ! — 

“ She does not dream — she cannot — of the dangers into 
which she has plunged. Fool that I am, — shall I save her ? — 
yes, for I love Glaucus better than myself.” 

When she arrived at the house of the Athenian, she learnt 
that he had gone out with a party of his friends, and none 
knew whither. He probably would not be home before mid- 
night. 

The Thessalian groaned ; she sank upon a seat in the hall, 
and covered her face with her hands as if to collect her 
thoughts. ** There is no time to be lost,” thought she, 
starting up. She turned to the slave who had accompanied 
her. 

“ Knowest thou,” said she, if lone has any relative, any 
intimate friend at Pompeii ? ” 

“ Why, by Jupiter ! ” answered the slave, ** art thou silly 
enough to ask the question ? Every one in Pompeii knows 
that lone has a brother, who, young and rich, has been — 
under the rose I speak — so foolish as to become a priest of 
Isis.” 

“ A priest of Isis I O gods ! his name ? ” 

** Apaecides.” 

I know it all,” muttered Nydia : brother and sister, 
then, are to be both victims ! Apaecides 1 yes, that was the 


♦ Terence. 


128 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


name I heard in Ha ! he well, then, knows the peril that 

surrounds his sister ; I will go to him.” 

She sprang up at that thought, and taking the staff which 
always guided her steps, she hastened to the neighboring 
shrine of Isis. Till she had been under the guardianship of 
the kindly Greek, that staff had sufficed to conduct the poor 
blind girl from corner to corner of Pompeii. Every street, 
every turning in the more frequented parts, was familiar to 
her; and as the inhabitants entertained a tender and half- 
superstitious veneration for those subject to her infirmity, the 
passengers had always given away to her timid steps. Poor 
girl, she little dreamed that she should, ere very many days 
were passed, find her blindness her protection, and a guide 
far safer than the keenest eyes ! 

But since she had been under the roof of Glaucus, he had 
ordered a slave to accompany her always ; and the poor devil 
thus appointed, who was somewhat of the fattest, and who, 
after having twice performed the journey to lone’s house, 
now saw himself condemned to a third excursion (whither the 
gods only knew), hastened after her, deploring his fate, and 
solemnly assuring Castor and Pollux that he believed the 
blind girl had the talaria of Mercury as well as the infirmity of 
Cupid. 

Nydia, however, required but little of his assistance to find 
her way to the popular temple of Isis : the space before it was 
now deserted, and she won without obstacle to the sacred rails. 

“ There is no one here,” said the fat slave. “ What dost 
thou want, or whom ? Knowest thou not that the priests do 
not live in the temple ? ” 

“ Call out ! ” said she impatiently ; “ night and day there is 
always one flamen, at least, watching in the shrines of Isis.” 

The slave called, — no one appeared 

“ Seest thou no one ? ” 

No one.” 

“Thou mistakest: I hear a sigh ; look again.” 

The slave, wondering and grumbling, cast round his heavy 
eyes, and before one of the altars, whose remains still crowd 
the narrow space, he beheld a form bending as in meditation. 

“ I see a figure,” said he ; “ and by the white garments, it is 
a priest.” 

“ O flamen of Isis ! ” cried Nydia ; “ servant of the Most 
Ancient, hear me ! ” 

“Who calls ? ” said a low and melancholy voice, 

“ One who has no common tidings to impart to a member of 
your body ; I come to declare and not to ask oracles.” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


I2Q 

“ With whom wouldst thou confer ? This is no hour for thy 
conference ; depart, disturb me not : the night is sacred to the 
gods, the day to men.” 

“ Methinks I know thy voice! thou art he whom I seek; 
yet I have heard thee speak but once before. Art thou not the 
priest Apaecides ? ” 

“ I am that man,” replied the priest, emerging from the altar 
and approaching the rail. 

“ Thou art ! the gods be praised ! ” Waving her hand to 
the slave, she bade him withdraw to a distance ; and he, who 
naturally imagined some superstition connected, perhaps, with 
the safety of lone, could alone lead her to the temple, obeyed, 
and seated himself on the ground at a little distance. “ Hush 1 ” 
said she, speaking quick and low; “art thou indeed Apae- 
cides ? ” 

“If thou knowest me, canst thou not recall my features ? ” 

“ I am blind,” answered Nydia ; “my eyes are in my ear, 
and that recognizes thee : yet swear that thou art he.” 

“ By the gods I swear it, by my right hand, and by the 
moon ! ” 

“ Hush ! speak low — ^bend near — ^give me thy hand : know 
est thou Arbaces ? Hast thou laid flowers at the feet of the 
dead ? Ah ! thy hand is cold — hark yet ! — ^hast thou taken the 
awful vow ? ” 

“ Who art thou, whence comest thou, pale maiden ? 

“ But thou hast heard my voice : no matter, those recollec- 
tions it should shame us both to recall. Listen, thou hast a 
sister.” 

“ Speak 1 speak ! what of her ? ” 

“Thou knowest the banquets of the dead, stranger, — 
pleases thee, perhaps, to share them — would it please thee to 
have thy sister a partaker ? Would it please thee that Arbaces 
was her host ? ” 

“O gods, he dare not 1 Girl, if thou mockest me, tremble! 
I will tear thee limb from limb ! ” 

“ I speak the truth ; and while I speak, lone is in the halls 
of Arbaces — for the first time his guest. Thou knowest if 
there be peril in that first time 1 Farewell I I have fulfilled my 
charge.” 

“ Stay ! stay 1 ” cried the priest, passing his wan hand over 
his brow. “ If this be true, what — what can be done to save 
her ? They may not admit me. I know not all the mazes of 
that intricate mansion. O Nemesis ! justly am I punished ! ” 

“I will dismiss yon slave, be thou my guide and comrade; 
I will lead thee to the private door of the house : I will whisper 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


130 

to thee the word which admits. Take some weapon ; it may b« 
needful ! ’* 

“ Wait an instant,* said Apaecides, retiring into one of the 
cells that flank the temple, and reappearing in a few moments 
wrapped in a large cloak, which was then much worn by all 
classes, and which concealed his sacred dress. “Now,” he 
said, grinding his teeth, “ if Arbaces hath dared to — but he 
dare not ! he dare not ! Why should I suspect him ? Is he so 
base a villain ? I will not think it — yet, sophist ! dark bewil- 
derer that he is ! O gods protect ! — hush there gods ? Yes, 
there is one goddess, at least, whose voice I can command ; 
and that is — Vengeance ! ” 

Muttering these disconnected thoughts Apascides, followed 
by his silent and sightless companion, hastened through the 
most solitary paths to the house of the Egyptian. 

The slave, abruptly dismissed by Nydia, shrugged his 
shoulders, muttered an adjuration, and nothing loath, rolled off 
to his cubiculum. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The solitude and soliloquy of the Egyptian — His character analyzed. 

We must go back a few hours in the progress of our story. 
At the first gray dawn of the day, which Glaucus has already 
marked with white, the Egyptian was seated, sleepless and 
alone, on the summit of the lofty and pyramidal tower which 
flanked his house. A tall parapet around it served as a wall, 
and conspired, with the height of the edifice and the gloomy 
trees that girded the mansion, to defy the prying eyes of 
curiosity or observation. A table, on which lay a scroll filled 
with mystic figures, was before him. On high, the stars waxed 
dim and faint, and the shades of night melted from the sterile) 
mountain-tops; only above Vesuvius there rested a deep and 
massy cloud, which for several days past had gathered darker 
and more solid over its summit. The struggle of night and 
day was more visible over the broad ocean, which stretched 
calm, like a gigantic lake, bounded by the circling shores that, 
covered with vines and foliage, and gleaming here and there 
with the white walls of sleeping cities, sloped to the scarce 
rippling waves. 

^ It was the hour above all others most sacred to the daring 
science of the Egyptian — the science which would read our 
changeful destinies in the stars. 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII, 


*31 

He had filled his scroll, he had noted the moment and the 
sign ; and leaning upon his hand, he had surrendered himself 
to the thoughts which his calculation excited. 

“ Again do the stars forewarn me ! Some danger, then, 
assuredly awaits me ! ” said he, slowly ; “ some danger, violent 
and sudden in its nature. The stars wear for me the same 
mocking menace which, if ou” chronicles do not err, they once 
wore for Pyrrhus — for him doomed to strive for all things, to 
enjoy none — all attacking, nothing gaining — battles without 
fruit, laurels without triumph, fame without success ; at last 
made craven by his own superstitions, and slain like a dog by 
a tile from the hand of an old woman ! Verily, the stars flatter 
when they give me a type in this fool of war, — when they 
promise to the ardor of my wisdom the same results as to the 
madness of his ambition ; — perpetual exercise — no certain goal ; 
— the Sisyphus task, the mountain and the stone ! — the stone, a 
gloomy image ! — it reminds me that I am threatened with 
somewhat of the same death as the Epirote. Let me look 
again. ‘ Beware,’ say the shining prophets, ‘ how thou passest 
under ancient roofs, or besieged walls, or overhanging cliffs — 
a stone, hurled from above, is charged by the curses of destiny 
against thee ! ’ And, at no distant date from this, comes the 
peril ; but I cannot, of a certainty, read the day and hour. 
Well ! if my glass runs low, the sands shall sparkle to the last. 
Yet, if I escape this peril — ay, if I escape — bright and flear as 
the moonlight track along the waters glows the rest of my ex- 
istence. I see honors, happiness, success, shining upon every 
billow of the dark gulf beneath which I must sink at last. What, 
then, with such destinies beyond the peril, shall I succumb io 
the peril ? My soul whispers hope, it sweeps exultingly beyond 
the boding hour, it revels in the future, — its own courage is 
its fittest omen. If I were to perish so suddenly and so soon, 
the shadow of death would darken over me, and I should feel 
the icy presentiment of my doom. My S' ml would express, in 
sadness and in gloom, its forecast of the dreary Orcus. But it 
smiles — it assures me of deliverance.” 

As he thus concluded his soliloquy, the Egyptian inv^luiu. 
tarily rose. He paced rapidly the narrow space of that stai^ 
roofed floor, and, pausing at the parapet, looked again v^poft 
the gray and melancholy heavens. The chills of the faint 
dawn came refreshingly upon his brow, and gradually his mind 
resumed its natural and collected calm. He withdrew his gaze 
from the stars, as, one after one, they receded into the depths 
of heaven ; and his eyes fell over the broad expanse below. 
Pim in the silenced Dort of the city rose the masts of the gal- 


*32 


THE LAST DA YS Ot' POMPEIi. 


ieys . along that mart of luxury and of labor was stilled the 
mighty hum. No lights, save here and there from before the 
columns of a temple, or in the porticoes of the voiceless forum, 
broke the wan and fluctuating light of the struggling morn. 
From the heart of the torpid city, so soon to vibrate with a 
thousand passions, there came no sound : the streams of life 
circulated not ; they lay locked under the ice of sleep. From 
the huge space of the amphitheatre, with its stony seats rising 
one above the other — coiled and round as some slumbering 
monster — rose a thin and ghastly mist, which gathered darker, 
and more dark, over the scattered foliage that gloomed in its 
vicinity, ^he city seemed as, after the awful change of seven- 
teen ages, it seems now to the traveller, — a City of the Dead.* 
The ocean itself — that serene and tideless sea — lay scarce 
less hushed, save that from its deep bosom came, softened by 
the distance, a faint and regular murmur, like the breathing of 
its sleep ; and curving far, as with outstretched arms, into the 
green and beautiful land, it seemed unconsciously to clasp to 
its breast the cities sloping to its margin — Stabiae,t and Her- 
culaneum, and Pompeii — those children and darlings of the 
deep. “Ye slumber,” said the Egyptian, as he scowled over 
the cities, the boast and flower of Campania ; “ ye slumber !■— 
would it were the eternal repose of death ! As ye now — jewels 
in the crown of empire — ^so once were the cities of the Nile I 
Their greatness hath perished from them, they sleep amidst 
ruins, their palaces and their shrines are tombs, the serpent 
coils in the grass of their streets, the lizard basks in the solitary 
halls. By that mysterious law of Nature, which humbles one 
to exalt the other, ye have thriven upon their ruins; thou 
haughty Rome, hast usurped the glories of Sesostris and Semi- 
ramis — thou art a robber, clothing thyself with their spoils! 
And these — slaves in thy triumph — that I (the last son of for- 
gotten monarchs) survey below, reservoirs of thine all-pervad- 
ing power and luxury, I curse as I behold! The time shall 
come when Egypt shall be avenged ! when the barbarian’s 
steed shall make his manger in the Golden House of Nero 1 
and thou that hast sown the wind with conquest shalt reap the 
harvest in the whirlwind of desolation ! ” 

As the Egyptian uttered a prediction which fate so fearfully 
fulfilled, a more solemn and boding image of ill omen never 

* When Sir Walter Scott visited Pompeii with Sir William Cell, almost 
his only remark was the exclamation, “ The City of the Dead— the City of 
the Dead.” ^ 

t Stabiae was indeed no longer a city, but it was still a favorite site for tha 
eUlas of the rich. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


m 


occurred to the dreams of painter or of poet. The morning 
light, which can pale so wanly even the young cheek of beauty, 
gave his majestic and stately features almost the colors of the 
grave, with the dark hair falling massively around them, and 
the dark robes flowing long and loose, and the arms out- 
stretched from the lofty eminence, and the glittering eyes, 
fierce with a savage gladness — half prophet and half fiend ! 

He turned his gaze from the city and the ocean ; before 
him lay the vineyards and meadows of the rich Campania. The 
gate and walls — ancient, half Pelasgic — of the city, seemed not 
to bound its extent. Villas and villages stretched on every 
side up the ascent of Vesuvius, not nearly then so steep or so 
lofty as at present. For as Rome itself is built on an exhausted 
volcano, so in similar security the inhabitants of the South 
tenanted the green and vine-clad places around a volcano 
whose fires they believe at rest forever. From the gate 
stretched the long street of tombs, various in size and archi- 
tecture, by which, on that side, the city is yet approached. 
Above all, rose the cloud-capped summit of the Dread Moun- 
tain, with the shadows, now dark, now light, betraying the 
mossy caverns and ashy rocks, which testified the past con- 
flagrations, and might have prophesied — but man is blind — 
that which was to come ! 

Difficult was it then and there to guess the causes why the 
tradition of the place wore so gloomy and stem a hue ; why, in 
those smiling plains, for miles around — to Baiae and Misenum 
— ^the poets had imagined the entrance and thresholds of their 
hell — their Acheron, and their fabled Styx: why, in those 
Phlegrae,* now laughing with the vine, they placed the battles 
of the gods, and supposed the daring Titans to have sought 
the victory of heaven — save, indeed, that yet, in yon seared 
and blasted summit, fancy might think to read the characters 
of the Olympian thunderbolt. 

But it w'as neither the rugged height of the still volcano, 
noi the fertility of the sloping fields, nor the melancholy 
avenue of tombs, nor the glittering villas of a polished and 
luxurious people, that now arrested the eye of the Eg^tian. 
On one part of the landscape, the mountain of Vesuvius de- 
scended to the plain in a narrow and uncultivated ridge, broken 
here and there by jagged crags and copses of wild foliage. At 
the base of this lay a marshy and unwholesome pool ; and the 
intent gaze of the Arbaces caught the outline of some living form 
moving by the marshes, and stooping ever and anon as if to 
pluck its rank produce. 

* Or Phlegraei Campi ; viz., scorched or homed fields. 


tS4 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


" Ho ! ” said he aloud, “ I have, then, another companion 
these unworldly night-watches. The witch of V esuvius is abroad. 
What ! doth she, too, as the credulous imagine — doth she, too, 
learn the lore of the great stars ? Hath she been uttering foul 
magic to the moon, or culling (as her pauses betoken) foul 
herbs from the venomous marsh ? Well, I must see this fellow- 
laborer. Whoever strives to know learns that no human lore is 
despicable. Despicable only you — ye fat and bloated things — 
slaves of luxury — sluggards in thought — who, cultivating nothing 
but the barren sense, dream that its poor soil can produce alike 
the myrtle and the laurel. No, the wise only can enjoy — to us 
only true luxury is given, when mind, brain, invention, experi- 
ence, thought, learning, imagination, all contribute like rivers to 
swell the seas of sense ! — lone ! ” 

As Arbaces uttered that last and charmed word, his thoughts 
sunk at once into a more deep and profound channel. His steps 
paused ; he took not his eyes from the ground ; once or twice 
he smiled joyously, and then, as he turned from his place of 
vigil, and sought his couch, he muttered, “ If death frowns so 
near, I will say at least that I have lived — lone shall be mine I 
The character of Arbaces was one of those intricate and varied 
webs, in which even the mind that sat within it was sometimes 
confused and perplexed. In him, the son of a fallen dynasty, 
the outcast cf a sunken people, was that spirit of discontented 
pride, which ever rankles in one of a sterner mould, who feels 
himself inexorably shut from the sphere in which his fathers 
shone, and to which Nature as well as birth no less entitles him* 
self. This sentiment hath no benevolence ; it wars with society, 
it sees enemies in mankind. But with this sentiment did not go 
its comon companion, poverty. Arbaces possessed wealth which 
equalled that of most of the Roman nobles ; and this enabled 
him to gratify to the utmost the passions which had no outlet 
in business or ambition. Travelling from clime to clime, and 
beholding still Rome everywhere, he increased both his hatred 
for society and his passion for pleasure. He was in a vast 
prison, which, however, he could fill with the ministers of 
luxury. He could not escape from the prison, and his only 
object, therefore, was to give it the character of the palace. The 
Egyptians, from the earliest time, were devoted to the joys of 
sense ; Arbaces inherited both their appetite for sensuality and the 
glow of imagination which struck light from its rottenness. But 
still, unsocial in his pleasure as in his graver pursuits, and brook- 
ing neither superior not equal, he admitted few to his compan* 
lonship, save the willing slaves of his profligacy. He was the soli- 
tary lord of a crowded harem ; but, with all, he felt condemned t9 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


135 

that satiety which is the constant curse of men whose intellect is 
above their pursuits, and that which once had been the impulse 
of passion froze down to the ordinance of custom. From the 
disappointments of sense he sought to raise himself by the culti- 
vation of knowledge ; but as it was not his object to serve man- 
kind, so he despised that knowledge which is practical and useful. 
His dark imagination loved to exercise itself in those more 
visionary and obscure researches which are ever the most de- 
lightful to a wayward and solitary mind, and to which he himself 
was invited by the daring pride of his disposition and the 
mysterious traditions of his clime. Dismissing faith in the 
confused creeds of the heathen world, he reposed the greatest 
faith in the power of human wisdom. He did not know (perhaps 
no one in that age distinctly did) the limits which Nature imposes 
upon our discoveries. Seeing that the higher we mount in 
knowledge the more wonders we behold, he imagined that 
Nature not only worked miracles in her ordinary course, but 
that she might, by the cabala of some master soul, be diverted 
from that course itself. Thus he pursued Science, across her 
appointed boundaries, into the land of perplexity and shadow. 
From the truths of astronomy he wandered into astrological 
fallacy ; from the secrets of chemistry he passed into the spectral 
labyrinth of magic ; and he who could be skeptical as to the 
power of the gods, was credulously superstitious as to the power 
of man. 

The cultivation of magic, carried at that day to a sin^lar 
height among the would-be wise was especially Eastern in its 
origin ; it was alien to the early philosophy of the Greeks, nor 
had it been received by them with favor until Ostanes, who 
accompanied the army of Xerxes, introduced, amongst the 
simple credulities of Hellas, the solemn superstitions of Zoro- 
aster. Under the Roman emperors it had become, however, 
naturalized at Rome (a meet subject for Juvenal’s fiery wit). 
Intimately connected with magic was the worship of Isis, and 
the Egyptian religion was the means by which was extended 
the devotion to Egyptian sorcery. The theurgic, or benevolent 
magic — the goetic, or dark and evil necromancy — were alike in 
pre-eminent repute during the first century of the Christian era ; 
and the marvels of Faustus are not comparable to those of 
Apollonius.* Kings, courtiers, and sages, all trembled before 
the professors of the dread science. And not the least remark- 
able of his tribe was the formidable and profound Arbaces. 
His fame and his discoveries were known to all the cultivators 
of magic ; they even survived himself. But it was not by his 
* See note {a) at the end of volume. 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


136 

real name that he was honored by the sorcerer and the sage, 
his real name, indeed, was unknown in Italy, for “ Arbaces” 
was not a genuinely Egyptian, but a Median appellation, which^ 
in the admixture and unsettlement of the ancient races, had 
become common in the country of the Nile ; and there were va- 
rious reasons, not only of pride, but of policy (for in youth he 
had conspired against the majesty of Rome), which induced 
him to conceal his true name and rank. But neither by the 
name he had borrowed from the Mede, nor by that which in 
the colleges of Egypt would have attested his origin from 
kings, did the cultivators of magic acknowledge the potent 
master. He received from their homage a more mystic appel 
lation, and was long remembered in Magna Graecia and the 
Eastern plains by the name of “ Hermes, the Lord of the 
Flaming Beit.” His subtle speculations and boasted attributes 
of wisdom, recorded in various volumes, were among those 
tokens “ of the curious arts ” which the Christian converts 
most joyfully, yet most fearfully, burned at Ephesus, depriving 
posterity of the proofs of the cunning of the fiend. 

The conscience of Arbaces was solely of the intellect — it 
was awed by no moral laws. If man imposed these checks 
upon the herd, so he believed that man, by superior wisdom, 
could raise himself above them. “ If [he reasoned] I have the 
genius to impose laws, have I not the right to command my 
own creations ? Still more, have I not the right to control — to 
evade — to scorn — the fabrications of yet meaner intellects 
than my own ? ” Thus, if he were a villain, he justified his 
villany by what ought to have made him virtuous — namely, 
the elevation of his capacities. 

Most men have more or less the passion for power ; in 
Arbaces that passion corresponded exactly to his character. 
It was not the passion for an external and brute authority. 
He desired not the purple and the fasces, the insignia of vulgar 
command. His youthful ambition once foiled and defeated, 
scorn had supplied its place — his pride, his contempt for Rome 
— Rome, which had become the synonym of the world (Rome, 
whose haughty name he regarded with the same disdain as 
that which Rome herself lavished upon the barbarian), did not 
permit him to aspire to sway over others, for that would render 
him at once the tool or creature of the emperor. He, the Son 
of the Great Race of Rameses — he execute the orders of, and 
receive his power from, another ! — the mere notion filled him 
with rage. But in rejecting an ambition that coveted nominal 
distinctions, he but indulged the more in the ambition to rule 
the heart. Honoring mental power as the greatest of earthly 


THE LAST DA KS OF POMPEII, 


137 


gifts, he loved to feel that power palpably in himself, by ex* 
tending it over all whom he encountered. Thus had he evei 
sought the ycung — thus had he ever fascinated and controlled 
them. He loved to find subjects in men’s souls — to rule over 
an invisible and immaterial empire ! — had he been less sensual 
and less wealthy, he might have sought to become the founder 
of a new religion. As it was, his energies where checked by his 
pleasures. Besides, however, the vague love of his moral swa 
•^vanity so dear to sages !) he was influenced by a singular anu 
dream-devotion to all that belonged to the mystic Land his 
ancestors had swayed. Although he disbelieved in her deities, 
he believed in the allegories they represented (or rather he in- 
terpreted those allegories anew). He loved to keep alive thu 
worship of Egypt, because he thus maintained the shadow and 
the recollection of her power. He loaded, therefore, the altars 
of Osiris and of Isis with regal donations, and was ever anxious 
to dignify their priesthood by new and wealthy converts. The 
vow taken — the priesthood embraced — he usually chose the 
comrades of his pleasures from those whom he had made his 
Hctims, partly because he thus secured to himself their secrecy 
— partly because he thus yet more confirmed to himself hia 
peculiar power. Hence the motives of his conduct to Apae- 
cides, strengthened as these were, in that instance, by his 
passion for lone. 

He had seldom lived long in one place ; but as he grew older, 
he grew more wearied of the excitement of new scenes, and 
he had sojourned among the delightful cities of Campania for 
a period which surprised even himself. In fact, his pride 
somewhat crippled his choice of residence. His unsuccessful 
conspiracy excluded him from those burning climes which he 
deemed of right his own hereditary possessions, and which 
now cowered, supine and sunken, under the wings of the 
Roman eagle. Rome herself was hateful to his indignant soul ; 
nor did he love to find his riches rivalled by the minions of 
the court, and cast into comparative poverty by the mighty 
magnificence of the court itself. The Campanian cities prof- 
fered to him all that his nature craved — the luxuries of an un- 
equalled climate — the imaginative refinements of a voluptuous 
civilization. He was removed from the sight of a superior 
wealth he was without rivals to his riches ; he was free from 
the spies of a jealous court. As long as he was nch, none 
pried into his conduct. He pursued the dark tenor of his way 
undisturbed and secure. 

“ It is the curse of sensualisms never to love till the pleasures 
of sense be^in to pall ; their ardent youth is frittered away in 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


I3S 

countless desires — their hearts are exhausted. So, evex^ chasing 
love, and taught by a restless imagination to exaggerate, per- 
haps, its charms, the Egyptian had spent all the glory of his 
years without attaining the object of his desires. The beauty 
of to-morrow succeeded the beauty of to-day, and the shadows 
bewildered him in his pursuit of the substance. When, two 
years before the present date, he beheld lone, he saw, for the 
first time, one whom he imagined he could love. He stood, 
then, upon that bridge of life, from which man sees before 
him distinctly a wasted youth on the one side, and the dark- 
ness of approaching age upon the other : a time in which we 
ajrp more than ever anxious, perhaps, to secure to ourselves, 
ere it be yet too late, whatever we have been taught to con- 
sider necessary to the enjoyment of a life of which the brighter 
half is gone. 

With an earnestness and a patience which he had never 
before commanded for his pleasures, Arbaces had devoted 
himself to win the heart of lone. It did not content him to 
love, he uesired to be loved. In this hope he had watched the 
expanding youth of the beautiful Neapolitan ; and, knowing 
the influence that the mind possesses over those who are taught 
to cultivate the mind, he had contributed willingly to form the 
genius and enlighten the intellect of lone, in the hope that she 
would be thus able to appreciate what he felt would be his best 
claim to her affection : viz., a character which, however criminal 
and perverted, was rich in its original elements of strength and 
grandeur. When he felt that character to be acknowledged, he 
willingly allowed, nay, encouraged her, to mix among the idle 
votaries of pleasure, in the belief that her soul, fitted for higher 
commune, would miss the companionship of his own, and that, 
in comparison with others, she would learn to love himself. 
He had forgot, that as the sunflower to the sun, so youth turns 
to youth, until his jealousy of Glaucus suddenly apprised him 
of his error. From that moment, though, as we have seen, he 
inew not the extent of his danger, a fiercer and more tumultu- 
ous direction was given to a passion long controlled. Nothing 
kindles the fire of love like a sprinkling of the anxieties of 
jealousy ; it takes ti.en a wilder, a more resistless flame ; it for- 
gets its softness ; it ceases to be tender ; it assumes something 
of the intensity — of the ferocity — of hate. 

Arbaces resolved to lose no farther time upon cautious and 
perilous preparations ; he resolved to place an irrevocable bar- 
rier between himself and his rivals : he resolved to possess 
himself of the person of lone : not that in his present love, so 
long nursed and fed by hopes purer than those of passion 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPETL 


^39 

alone, he would have been contented with that mere posses^ 
sion. He desired the heart, the soul, no less than the beauty, 
of lone ; but he imagined that once separated by a daring crime 
trom the rest of mankind — once bound to lone by a tie that 
memory could not break, she would be driven to concentrate 
her thoughts in him — that his arts would complete his conquest, 
and that, according to the true moral of the Roman and the 
Sabine, the empire obtained by force would be cemented by 
gentler means. This resolution was yet more confirmed in him 
by his belief in the prophecies of the stars : they had long 
foretold to him this year, and even the present month, as the 
epoch of some dread disaster, menacing life itself. He was 
driven *o a certain and limited date. He resolved to crowd, 
monarcn-like, on his funeral pyre all that his soul held most 
dear. In his own words, if he were to die, he resolved to feel 
that he had lived, and that lone should be his own. 


CHAPTER IX. 

What becomes of lone in the house of Arbaces — The first signal of the 
wrath of the dread foe. 

When lone entered the spacious hall of the Egyptian, the 
same awe which had crept over her brother impressed itself 
also upon her : there seemed to her as to him something omi- 
nous and warning in the still and mournful faces of those dread 
Theban monsters, whose majestic and passionless features the 
marble so well portrayed : 

“ Their look, with the reach of past ages, was wise, 

And the soul of eternity thought in their eyes.” 

The tall Ethiopian slave grinned as he admitted her, and 
motioned to her to proceed. Half-way up the hall she was 
met by Arbaces himself, in festive robes, which glittered with 
jewels. Although it was broad day without, the mansion, ac- 
cording to the practice of the luxurious, was artificially dark- 
ened, and the lamps cast their still and odor-giving light over 
the rich floors and ivory roofs. 

“ Beautiful lone,” said Arbaces, as he bent to touch her 
hand, “ it is you that have eclipsed the day — it is your eyes 
that light up the halls — it is your breath which fills them with 
perfumes. 


140 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


“ You must not talk to me thus,” said lone, smiling : “ you 
forget that your lore has sufficiently instructed my mind to 
render these graceful flatteries to my person unwelcome. It 
was you who taught me to disdain adulation : will you unteach 
your pupil ? ” 

There was something so frank and charming in the manner 
of lone, as she thus spoke, that the Egyptian was more than 
ever enamored, and more than ever disposed to renew the 
offence he had committed ; he, however, answered quickly and 
gayly, and hastened to renew the conversation. 

He led her through the various chambers of the house^ 
which seemed to contain to her eyes, inexperienced to other 
splendor than the minute elegance of Campanian cities, the 
treasures of the world. 

In the walls were set pictures of inestimable art, the lights 
shone over statues of the noblest age of Greece. Cabinets of 
gems, each cabinet itself a gem, filled up the interstices of the 
columns ; the most precious woods lined the thresholds and 
composed the doors ; gold and jewels seemed lavished all 
around. Sometimes they were alone in these rooms — some- 
times they passed through silent rows of slaves, who, kneel- 
ing as she passed, proffered to her offerings of bracelets, of 
chains, of gems, which the Egyptian vainly entreated her to 
receive. 

“ I have often heard,” said she, wonderingly, “ that you 
were rich : but I never dreamed of the amount of your wealth.” 

“ Would I could coin it all,” replied the Egyptian, “ intc 
one crown, which I might place upon that snowy brow ! ” 

“ Alas ! the weight would crush me ; I should be a second 
Tarpeia,” answered lone, laughingly. 

“ But thou dost not disdain riches, O lone ! they know not 
what life is capable of who are not wealthy. Gold is the great 
magician of earth — it realizes our dreams — it gives them the 
power of a god — there is a grandeur, a sublimity, in its posses- 
sion ; it is the mightiest, yet the most obedient of our slaves.” 

The artful Arbaces sought to dazzle the young Neapolitan 
by his treasures and his eloquence ; he sought to awaken in 
her the desire to be mistress of what she surveyed : he hoped 
that she would confound the owner with the possessions, 
and that the charms of his wealth would be reflected on him- 
self. Meanwhile, lone was secretly somewhat uneasy at the 
gallantries which escaped from those lips, which, till lately, 
had seemed to disdain the common homage we pay to beauty, 
and with that delicate subtlety, which woman alone possesses, 
she sought to ward off shafts deliberately aimed, and to laugh 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


141 


or to talk away the meaning from his warming language, 
Nothing in the world is more pretty than that same species of 
defence ; it is the charm of the African necromancer who pro- 
fessed with a feather to turn aside the winds. 

The Egyptian w'as intoxicated and subdued by her grace 
even more than by her beauty ; it was with difficulty that he 
suppressed his emotions ; alas ! the feather was only powerful 
against the summer breezes — it would be the sport of the storm. 

Suddenly, as they stood in one hall, which was surrounded 
by draperies of silver and white, the Egyptian clapped his 
hands, and as if by enchantment, a banquet rose from the floor 
— a couch or throne, with a crimson canopy, ascended simub 
taneously, at the feet of lone, — and at the same instant from 
behind the curtains swelled the invisible and softest music. 

Arbaces placed himself at the feet of lone, and children 
young and beautiful as Loves, ministered to the feast. 

The feast was over, the music sank into a low and subdued 
strain, and Arbaces thus addressed his beautiful guest : — 

“ Hast thou never in this dark and uncertain world — hast 
thou never aspired, my pupil, to look beyond — hast thou never 
wished to put aside the veil of futurity, and to behold on the 
shores of Fate the shadowy images of things to be ? For it is 
not the past alone that has its ghosts : each event to come has 
also its spectrum — its shade ; when the hour arrives, life enters 
it, the shadow becomes corporeal, and walks the world. Thus, 
in the lands beyond the grave, are ever two impalpable and 
spiritual hosts — the things to be, the things that have been! 
If by our wisdom we can penetrate that land, we see the one 
as the other, and learn, as /have learned, not alone the mys- 
teries of the dead, but also the destiny of the living.” 

“ As thou hast learned ! — Can wisdom attain so far ? ” 

“Wilt thou prove my knowledge, lone, and behold the 
representation of thine own fate } It is a dream more striking 
than those of /Eschylus ; it is one I have prepared for thee, if 
thou wilt see the shadows perform their part.” 

The Neapolitan trembled ; she thought of Glaucus, and 
sighed as well as trembled ; were their destinies to be united ? 
Half incredulous, half believing, half awed, half alarmed by 
the words of her strange host, she remained for some moments 
silent, and then answered — 

“ It may revoL — it may terrify ; the knowledge of the future 
w'ill perhaps only embitter the present ! ” 

“ Not so, lone. I have myself looked upon thy future lot, 
and the ghosts of thy Future bask in the gardens of Elysium ; 
amidst the asphodel and the rose they prepare garlands of thy 


142 


THE LAST DA YS GF POMPEII. 


sweet destiny, and the Fates, so harsh to others, weave only 
for thee the web of happiness and love. Wilt thou then come 
and behold thy doom, so that thou mayest enjoy it before- 
hand ? ” 

Again the heart of lone murmured “ Glaucus ; ” she uttered 
a half audible assent ; the Egyptian rose, and taking her by 
the hand, he led her across the banquet-room — the curtains 
withdrew, as by magic hands, and the music broke forth in a 
louder and gladder strain ; they passed a row of columns, on 
either side of which fountains cast aloft their fragrant waters ; 
they descended by broad and easy steps into a garden. The 
eve had co nmenced ; the moon was already high in heaven, and 
those sweet dowers that sleep by day, and fill, with ineffable 
odors, the airs of night, were thickly scattered amidst alleys cut 
through the star-lit foliage ; — or, gathered in baskets, lay like 
offerings at the feet of the frequent statues that gleamed along 
their path. 

“ Whither Wouldst thou lead me, Arbaces } ” said lone, won- 
deringly. 

“ But yonder,” said he, pointing to a small building which 
stood at the end of the vista. “ It is a temple consecrated to 
the Fates — our rights require such holy ground.” 

They passed into a narrow hall, at the end of which hung a 
sable curtain. Arbaces lifted it ; lone entered, and found her- 
self in total darkness. 

“ Be not alarmed,” said the Egyptian, “ the light will rise 
instantly.” While he so spoke, a soft, and warm, and gradual 
light diffused itself around ; as it spread over each object, lone 
perceived that she was in an apartment of moderate size, hung 
everywhere with black ; a couch with draperies of the same 
hue was beside her. In the centre of the room was a small 
altar, on which stood a tripod of bronze. At one side upon a 
lofty column of granite, was a colossal head of the blackest 
marble, which she perceived, by the crown of wheat-ears that 
encircled the brow, represented the great Egyptian goddess. 
Arbaces stood before the altar : he had laid his garland on the 
ihrine, and seemed occupied with pouring into the tripod the 
contents of a brazen vase ; suddenly from that tripod leaped 
into life a blue, quick, darting, irregular flame ; the Egyptian 
drew back to the side of lone, and muttered some words in a 
language unfamiliar to her ear ; the curtain at the back of the 
altar waved tremulously to and fro — it parted slowly, and in the 
aperture which was thus made, lone beheld an indistinct and 
pale landscape, which gradually grew brighter and clearer as 
she gazed j at length she discovered plainly trees, and rivers, 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


143 

and meadows, and all the beautiful diversity of the richest 
earth. Ai lengtn, before the landscape, a dim shadow glided,* 
it rested opposite to lone ; slowly the same charm seemed to 
operate upon it as over the rest of the scene ; it took form and 
shape, and lo ! — in its feature and in its form lone beheld her 
self ! 

Then the scene behind the spectre faded away, and was 
succeeded by the representation of a gorgeous palace ; a throne 
was raised in the centre of its hall — the dim forms of slaves and 
guards were ranged round it, and a pale hand held over the throne 
the likeness of a diadem. 

A new actor now appeared ; he was clothed from head to 
foot in a dark robe — his face was concealed — he knelt at the feet 
of the shadowy lone — he clasped her hand — he pointed to the 
throne, as if to invite her to ascend it. 

The Neapolitan’s heart beat violently. “ Shall the shadow 
disclose itself ? ” whispered a voice beside her — the voice of 
Arbaces. 

“ Ah, yes ! ” answered lone, softly. 

Arbaces raised his hand — the spectre seemed to drop the 
mantle that concealed its form — and lone shrieked — it was 
Arbaces himself that thus knelt before her. 

“ This is, indeed, thy fate ! ” whispered again the Egyptian’s 
voice in her ear. “ And thou art destined to be the bride of 
Arbaces.” 

lone started — the black curtain closed over the phantasma- 
goria : and Arbaces himself — the real, the living Arbaces — was 
at her feet. 

“ Oh, lone ! ” said he, passionately gazing upon her ; “ listen 
to one who has long struggled vainly with his love. I adore 
thee ! The fates do not lie — thou are destined to be mine — 
I have sought the world around, and found none like thee. 
From my youth upward, I have sighed for such as thou art. 
I have dreamed till I saw thee — I wake, and I behold thee. 
Turn not away from me, lone ; think not of me as thou hast 
thought ; I am not that being— cold, insensate, and morose, 
which I have seemed to thee. Never woman had lover so 
devoted — so passionate as I will be to lone. Do not struggle 
in my clasp : see — I release thy hand. Take it from me if thou 
wilt — well, be it so ! But do not reject me, ^one — do not 
rashly reject — judge of thy power over him whom thou cansi 
thus transform. I who never knelt to mortal being, kneel to 
thee. I who have commanded fate, receive from thee my own. 
lone, tremble not, thou art my queen— my goddess :— be my 
bride 1 All the wishes thou canst form shall be fulfilled. The 


144 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


ends of the earth shall minister to thee — pomp, power, luxury, 
shall be thy slaves. Arbaces shall have no ambition, save the 
pride of obeying thee. lone, turn upon me those eyes — shed 
upon me thy smile. Dark is my soul when thy face is hid from 
it ; — shine over me, my sun — my heaven — my daylight ! lone, 
lone — do not reject my love ! ” 

Alone, and in the power of this singular and fearful man, 
lone was not yet terrified ; the respect of his language the soft- 
ness of his voice, reassured her ; and, in her own purity, she 
felt protection. But she was confused, astonished ; it was some 
moments before she could recover the power to reply. 

“ Rise, Arbaces I ” said she at length ; and she resigned tt 
him once more her hand, which she as quickly withdrew again, 
when she felt upon it the burning pressure of his lips. 

“ Rise ! and if thou art serious, if thy language be in earn? 
est ” 

If said he, tenderly. 

Well, then, listen to me : you have been my guardian, my 
friend, my monitor ; for this new character I was not prepared ; 
think not,” she added quickly, as she saw his dark eyes glitter 
with the fierceness of his passion — “ think not that I scorn— 
that I am untouched — that I am not honored by this homage ; 
but, say — canst thou hear me calmly ? ” 

“ Ay, though thy words were lightning, and could blast 
me ! ” 

“ I love afwther ! ” said lone, blushingly, but in a firm 
voice. 

“By the gods — ^byhell!” shouted Arbaces, rising to his 
fullest height ; “ dare not tell me that — dare not mock me : — it is 
impossible ! — Whom hast thou seen — whom known ! Oh, lone 
it is thy woman’s invention, thy woman’s art that speaks — thou 
wouldst gain time : I have surprised — I have terrified thea 
Do with me as thou wilt — say that thou lovest not me ; but say 
not that thou lovest another ! ” 

“ Alas ! ” began lone ; and then, appalled before his sudden 
and unlooked-for violence, she burst into tears. 

Arbaces came nearer to her — his breath glowed fiercely on 
her cheek ; he wound his arms around her — she sprang from 
his embrace. In the struggle a tablet fell from her bosom on 
the ground : Arbaces perceived, and seized it — it was the letter 
that morning received from Glaucus. lone sank upon the couch, 
half dead with terror. 

Rapidly the eyes of Arbaces ran over the writing; the Nea- 
politian did not dare to gaze upon him : she did not see the 
deadly paleness that came over his countenance — she marked 


THE CASl DAYS OF POMPEII, 


HI 

not his withering frown, nor the quivering of his lip, nor the 
convulsions that heaved his breast. He read it to the end, and 
then, as the letter fell from his hand, he said, in a voice of 
deceitful calmness, — 

“Is the writer of this the man thou lovest? ” 

lone sobbed, but answered not. 

“ Speak I ” he rather shrieked than said. 

“ It is — it is ! ’* 

“ And his name — it is written here — his name is Glaucus ! ” 

lone, clasping her hands, looked round as for succor or 
escape. 

“Then hear me,” said Arbaces, sinking his voice into a 
whisper ; “ thou shalt go to thy tomb rather than to his arms. 
What ! thinkest thou Arbaces will brook a rival such as this 
puny Greek ? What ! thinkest thou that he has watched the 
fruit ripen, to yield it to another ! Pretty fool — no ! Thou art 
mine — all— only mine : and thus — thus I seize and claim thee ! ” 
As he spoke, he caught lone in his arms ; and, in that ferocious 
grasp, was all the energy — less of love than of revenge. 

But to lone despair gave supernatural strength ; she again 
tore herself from him — she rushed to that part of the room by 
which she had entered — she half withdrew the curtain — he 
seized her — again she broke away from him — and fell exhausted, 
and with a loud shriek, at the base of the column which sup- 
ported the head of the Egyptian goddess. Arbaces paused for 
a moment, as if to regain his breath ; and then once more darted 
upon his prey. 

At that instant the curtain was rudely torn aside, the Egyp- 
tian felt a fierce and strong grasp upon his shoulder. He turned 
—•he beheld before him the flashing eyes of Glaucus and the 
pale, worn, but menacing, countenance of Apaecides. “ Ah ! ” 
he muttered, as he glared from one to the other, “what Fury 
hath sent ye hither ? ” 

“ Atb,” answered Glaucus ; and he closed at once with the 
Egyptian. Meanwhile, Apaecides raised his sister, now life- 
less, from the ground ; his strength, exhausted by a mind long 
overwrought, did not suffice to bear her away, light and deli- 
cate though her shape : he placed her, therefore, on the couch, 
and stood over her wi<:h a brandishing knife, watching the 
contest between Glaucus and the Egyptian, and ready to plunge 
his weapon in the bosom of Arbaces should he be victorious 
in the struggle. There is, perhaps, nothing on earth so ter- 
rible as the naked and unarmed contest of animal strength, 
nc weapon but those which Nature supplies to rage. Both the 
antagonists we^* now locked in each other’s grfM^^the hand of 

lO 


146 the last da YS of POMPEII, 

each seeking the throat of the other — the face drawn back— . 
the fierce eyes flashing — the muscles strained — the veins swelled 
— the lips apart — the teeth set ; — both were strong beyond the 
ordinary power of men, both animated by relentless wrath ; 
they coiled, they wound, round each other ; they rocked to 
and fro — they swayed from end to end of their confined arena : 
— they uttered cries of ire and revenge ; — they were now be- 
fore the altar — now at the base of the column where the 
struggle had commenced : they drew back for breath — Arbaces 
leaning against the column, — Glaucus a few paces apart. 

“O ancient goddess ! exclaimed Arbaces, clasping the 
column, and raising his eyes towards the sacred image it sup- 
ported, “ protect thy chosen, — proclaim thy vengeance against 
this thing of an upstart creed, who with sacrilegious violence 
profanes thy resting-place and assails thy servant.” 

As he spoke, the still and vast features of the goddess 
seemed suddenly to glow with life; through black marble, 
as through a transparent veil, flushed luminously a crimson 
and burning hue ; around the head played and darted corus- 
cations of livid lightning ; the eyes became like balls of lurid 
fire, and seemed fixed in withering and intolerable wrath upon 
the countenance of the Greek. Awed and appalled by this 
sudden and mystic answer to the prayer of his foe, and not free 
from the hereditary superstition of his race, the cheeks of 
Glaucus paled before that strange and ghastly animation of the 
marble, — his knees knocked together, — he stood, seized with a 
divine panic, dismayed, aghast, half-unmanned before his foe. 
Arbaces gave him not breathing time to recover his stupor. 
“ Die, wretch ! ” he shouted, in a voice of thunder, as he sprang 
upon the Greek ; “ the Mighty Mother claims thee as a living 
sacrifice ! ” Taken thus by surprise in the first consternation of 
his superstitious fears, the Greek lost his footing — the marble 
floor was as smooth as glass — he slid — he fell. Arbaces planted 
his foot on the breast of his fallen foe. Apaecides, taught by 
his sacred profession, as well as by his knowledge of Arbaces, 
to distrust all miraculous interpositions, had not shared the dis- 
may of his companion ; he rushed forward, his knife gleamed 
in the air, — the watchful Egyptian caught his arm as it de- 
scended, — one wrench of his powerful hand tore the weapon 
from the weak grasp of the priest, — one sweeping blow stretched 
him to the eai th — with a loud and exulting yell Arbaces brand- 
ished the knife on high. Glaucus gazed upon his impending 
fate with unwinking eyes, and in the stern and scornful resig- 
nation of a fallen gladiator, when, at that a\vful instant, the 
floor shook under them »"*th a rapid and convulsive throe — a 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


147 

mightier spirit than that of the Egyptian was abroad ! — a giant 
and crushing power, before which sunk into sudden impo 
tence his passion and his arts. It woke — it stirred — that the 
dread Demon of the Earthquake — laughing to scorn alike the 
magic of human guile and the malice of human wrath. As a 
Titan, on whom the mountains are piled, it roused itself from 
the sleep of years, — it moved on its tortured couch, — the 
caverns below groaned and trembled beneath the motion of itss 
limbs. In the moment of his vengeance and his power the self- 
prized demigod was humbled to his real clay. Far and wide 
along the soil went a hoarse and rumbling sound, — the curtains 
of the chamber shook as at the blast of a storm, — the altar 
rocked — the tripod reeled, — and, high over the place of contest, 
the column trembled and waved from side to side, — the sable 
head of the goddess tottered and fell from its pedestal ; — and 
as the Egyptian stooped above his intended victim, right upon 
his bended form, right between the shoulder and the neck, 
struck the marble mass ! the shock stretched him like the blow 
of death, at once, suddenly, without sound or motion, or sem- 
blance of life, upon the floor, apparently crushed by the veiy 
divinity he had impiously animated and invoked ! 

“The Earth has preserved her children,” said Glaucus, 
staggering to his feet. “ Blessed be the dread convulsion f 
Let us worship the providence of the gods ! ” He assisted 
Apaecides to rise, and then turned upward the face of Arbaces ; 
it seemed locked as in death ; blood gushed from the Egyptian’s 
lips over his glittering robes ; he fell heavily from the arms 
of Glaucus, and the red stream trickled slowly along the 
marble. Again the earth shook beneath their feet ; they were 
forced to cling to each other ; the convulsion ceased as suddenly 
as it came : they tarried no longer ; Glaucus bore lone lightly 
m his arms, and they fled from the unhallowed spot. But scarce 
had they entered the garden when they were met on all sides 
by flying and disordered groups of women and slaves, whose 
festive and glittering garments contrasted in mockery the 
solemn terror of the hour ; they did not appear to heed the 
strangers, — they were occupied only with their own fears. 
After the tranquillity of sixteen years, that burning and treach- 
erous soil again menaced destruction ; they uttered but one cry, 
“ THE EARTHQUAKE ! THE EARTHQUAKE ! ” and passing Unmo- 
lested from the midst of them, Apaecides and his companions, 
without entering the house, hastened down one of the alleys, 
passed a small open gate, and there, sitting on a little mound 
over which spread the gloom of the dark green aloes, the 
moonlight fell on the bended figure of the blind girl, — she way 
^eeping bitterly. 


THE LAST DA VS OF FOMFEIL 


14 ^ 


BOOK THE THIRD. 


CHAPTER I. 

The forum of the Pompeians ; — The first rude machinery h ttut 
era of the world was wrought. 

It was early noon, and the forum was crowded tiliiw with 
the busy and the idle. As at Paris at this day, so at that time 
in the cities of Italy, men lived almost wholly out of doors, 
the public buildings, the forum, the porticoes, the baths, the 
temples themselves, might be considered their real homes ; it 
was no wonder that they decorated so gorgeously these favorite 
places of resort, — they felt for them a sort of domestic affection 
as well as a public pride. And animated was, indeed, the aspect 
of the forum of Pompeii at that time ! Along its broad pave- 
ment, composed of large flags of marble, were assembled va- 
rious groups, conversing in that energetic fashion which appro- 
priates a gesture to every word, and which is still the charac- 
teristic of the people of the south. Here, in seven staffs on 
one side the colonnade, sat the money-changers, with their 
glittering heaps before them, and merchants and seamen in 
various costumes crowding round their stalls. On one side, 
several men in long togas * were seen bustling rapidly up to a 
stately edifice, where the magistrates administered justice ; — 
these were the lawyers, active, chattering, joking, and punning, 
as you may find them at this day in Westminster. In the centre 
of the space, pedestals supported various statues, of which the 
most remarkable was the stately form of Cicero. Around the 
court ran a regular and symmetrical colonnade of Doric archi- 
tecture ; and there several, whose business drew them early to 
the place, were taking the slight morning repast which made 
an Italian breakfast, talking vehemently of the earthquake of 

* For the lawyers, and the clients, when attending on their patrons, r© 
Gained the toga after it had fallen into disuse among thr.^t of the citizens, 


THE LAST DA VS OF rOMPEII, 


149 

the preceding night as they dipped pieces of bread in their 
cups of diluted wine. In the open space, too, you might per* 
ceive various petty traders exercising the arts of their calling. 
Here one man was holding out ribbons to a fair dame f om 
the country ; another man was vaunting to a stout farmer the 
excellence of his shoes ; a third, a kind of stall-restaurateur, 
still so common in the Italian cities, was supplying many a 
hungry mouth with hot messes from his small and itinerant 
stove, while — contrast strongly typical of the mingled bustle 
and intellect of the time — close by, a schoolmaster was ex- 
pounding to his puzzled pupils the elements of the Latin gram- 
mar.* A gallery above the portico, which was ascended by 
small wooden staircases had also its throng ; though, as here 
the immediate business of the place was mainly carried on, its 
groups wore a more quiet and serious air. 

Every now and then the crowd below respectfully gave way 
as some senator swept along to the Temple of Jupiter (which 
filled up one side of the forum, and was the senators’ hall of 
meeting), nodding with ostentatious condescension to such of 
his friends or clients as he distinguished amongst the throng. 
Mingling amidst the gay dresses of the better orders you saw 
the hardy forms of the neighboring farmers, as they made their 
way to the public granaries. Hard by the temple you caught 
a view of the triumphal arch, and the long street beyond swarm- 
ing with inhabitants ; in one of the niches of the arch a foun- 
tain played, cheerily sparkling in the sunbeams ; and above its 
cornice rose the bronzed and equestrian statue of Caligula, 
strongly contrasting the gay summer skies. Behind the stalls 
of the money-changers was that building now called the Pan- 
theon, and a crowd of the poorer Pompeians passed through 
the small vestibule which admitted to the interior, with pan- 
niers under their arms, pressing on towards a platform, placed 
between two columns, where such provisions as the priests had 
rescued from sacrifice were exposed for sale. 

At one of the public edifices appropriated to the business 
of the city, workmen were employed upon the columns, and 
you heard the noise of their labor every now and then rising 
above the hum of the multitude : — the columns are unfinished to 
this day 1 

* In the Museum at Naples is a picture little known, but representing 
one side of the forum at Pompeii as then existing, to which I am much in- 
debted in the present description. It may afford a learned consolation to 
my younger readers to know that the ceremony of hoisting (more honored 
in the breach than the observance) is of high antiquity, and seems to have 
been performed with all legitimate and public vigor in the forum of Pompeii 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


«50 

All, then, united, nothing could exceed in variety the co& 
tumes, the ranks, the manners, the occupations of the crowd ; 
— nothing could exceed the bustle, the gayety, the animation, 
the flow and flush of life all around. You saw there all the 
myriad signs of a heated and feverish civilization, — where 
pleasure and commerce, idleness and labor, avarice and am- 
bition, mingled in one gulf their motley, rushing yet harmonious, 
streams. 

Facing the steps of the Temple of Jupiter, with folded 
arms, and a knit and contemptuous brow, stood a man of about 
fifty years of age. His dress was remarkably plain, — not so 
much from its material, as from the absence of all those orna- 
ments which were worn by the Pompeians of every rank, — 
partly from the love of show, partly, also, because they were 
chiefly wrought into those shapes deemed most efficacious in 
resisting the assaults of magic and the influence of the evil 
eye.* His forehead was high and bald ; the few locks that 
remained at the back of the head were concealed by a sort of 
cowl, which made a part of his cloak, to be raised or lowered 
at pleasure, and was now drawn half-way over the head, as a 
protection from the rays of the sun. The color of his garments 
was brown, no popular hue with the Pompeians ; all the usual 
admixtures of scarlet or purple seemed carefully excluded. 
His belt, or girdle, contained a small receptacle for ink, which 
looked on to the girdle, a stilus (or implement of writing), 
ind tablets of no ordinary size. What was rather remarkable, 
ihe cincture held no purse, which was the almost indispensable 
appurtenance of the girdle, even when that purse had the 
misfortune to be empty ! 

It was not often that the gay and egotistical Pompeians 
busied themselves with observing the countenances and actions 
of their neighbors ; but there was that in the lip and eye of this 
by-stander so remarkably bitter and disdainful, as he surveyed 
the religious procession sweeping up the stairs of the temple, 
that it could not fail to arrest the notice of many. 

“ Who is yon cynic ? ” asked a merchant of his companion, 
a jeweller. 

“ It is Olinthus,” replied the jeweller ; “ a reputed Naza- 
rene.” 

The merchant shuddered. “A dread sect ! said he, in a 
whispered and fearful voice. “ It is said, that when they meet 
at nights they always commence their ceremonies by the mur- 
der of a new-born babe : they profess a community of goods, 
too, — the wretches ! A community of goods I What would 
* See note (a) at the end of volume. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


IS* 

become of merchants, or jewellers either, if such notions were 
in fashion ? ” 

“ That is very true,” said the jeweller ; “ besides, they weal 
no jewels, — they mutter imprecations when they see a serpent; 
and at Pompeii all our ornaments are serpentine.” 

“ Do but observe,” said a third, who was a fabricant of 
bronze, “ how yon Nazarene scowls at the piety of the sacrifi- 
cial procession. He is murmuring curses on the temple, be 
sure. Do you know, Celcinus, that this fellow, passing by my 
shop the other day, and seeing me employed on a statue of 
Minerva, told me with a frown that, had it been marble, he 
would have broken it ; but the bronze was too strong for him. 
‘ Break a goddess ! ’ said I. ‘ A goddess ! ’ answered the atheist ; 
* it is a demon, — an evil spirit ! * Then he passed on his way 
cursing. Are such things to be borne t What marvel that the 
earth heaved so fearfully last night, anxious to reject the athe- 
ist from her bosom ? — An atheist, do I say } worse still, — a 
scorner of the Fine Arts ? Woe to us fabricants of bronze, if 
such fellows as this give the law to society 1 ” 

“ These are the incendiaries that burnt Rome under Nero/' 
groaned the jeweller. 

While such were the friendly remarks provoked by the air 
and faith of the Nazarene, Olinthus himself became sensible 
of the effect he was producing ; he turned his eyes round and 
observed the intent faces of the accumulating throng, whisper- 
ing as they gazed ; and surveying them for a moment with an 
expression, first of defiance, and afterwards of compassion, he 
gathered his cloak round him and passed on, muttering audibly, 
“ Deluded idolaters ! — did not last night’s convulsion warn ye ? 
Alas ! how will ye meet the last day ” 

The crowd that heard these boding words gave them dif- 
ferent interpretations, according to their different shades of 
ignorance and of fear ; all, however, concurred in imagining 
them to convey some awful imprecation. They regarded the 
Christian as the enemy of mankind ; the epithets they lavished 
upon him, of which “ Atheist ” was the most favored and fre- 
quent, may serve, perhaps, to warn us, believers of that same 
creed now triumphant, how we indulge the persecution of 
opinion Olinthus then underwent, and how we apply to those 
whose notions differ from our own the terms at that day lavished 
on the fathers of our faith. 

As Olinthus stalked through the crowd, and gained one of 
the more private places of egress from the forum, he perceived 
gazing upon him a pale and earnest countenance, which he was 
not slow to recognize. 


152 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


Wrapped in a pallium that partially concealed his sacred 
robes, the young Apaecides surveyed the disciple of that new 
and mysterious creed, to which at one time he had been half a 
convert. 

“Is he., too, an impostor ? Does this man, so plain and 
simple in life, in garb, in mien — does he too, like Arbaces, make 
austerity the robe of the sensualist? Does the veil of Vesta 
hide the vices of the prostitute ? ” 

Olinthus, accustomed to men of all classes, and combining 
with the enthusiasm of his faith a profound experience of his 
kind, guessed, perhaps, by the index of the countenance, some 
thing of what passed within the breast of the priest. He met 
the survey of Apaecides with a steady eye, and a brow of serene 
and open candor. 

“ Peace be with thee ! ” said he, saluting Apaecides. 

“ Peace ! ” echoed the priest, in so hollow a tone that it went 
at once to the heart of the Nazarene. 

“ In that wish,” continued Olinthus, “ ail good things are 
combined — without virtue thou canst not have peace. Like the 
rainbow. Peace rests upon the earth, but its arch is lost in 
heaven ! Heaven bathes it in hues of light — it springs up 
amidst tears and clouds, — it is a reflection of the Eternal Sun 
— it is an assurance of calm — it is the sign of a great covenant 
between Man and God. Such peace, O young man 1 is the 
smile of the soul ; it is an emanation from the distant orb of 
immortal light. Peace be with you ! ” 

“ Alas 1 ” began Apaecides, when he caught the gaze of the 
curious loiterers, inquisitive to know what could possibly be the 
theme of conversation between a reputed Nazarene and a priest 
of Isis. He stopped short, and then added in a low tone — 
“We cannot converse here. I will follow thee to the banks of 
the river ; there is a walk which at this time is usually deserted 
and solitary.” 

Olinthus bowed assent. He passed through the streets with 
a hasty step, but a quick and observant eye. Every now and 
then he exchanged a significant glance, a slight sign, with some 
passenger, whose garb usually betokened the wearer to belong 
to the humbler classes ; for Christianity was in this the type of 
all other and less mighty revolutions — the grain of mustard-seed 
was in the hearts of the lowly. Amidst the huts of poverty and 
labor, the vast stream which afterwards poured its broad waters 
beside the cities and palaces of earth, took its neglected source. 


THE LAST DA YS OF FOMFEIL 


i5i 


CHAPTER II. 

The noonday excursion on the Campanian seas. 

“ But tell me, Glaucus,” said lone, as they glided down the 
rippling Sarnus in their boat of pleasure, “ how earnest thou 
with Apaecides to my rescue from that bad man ? ” 

“ Ask Nydia yonder,” answered the Athenian, pointing to the 
blind girl, who sat at a little distance from them, leaning pen- 
sively over her lyre : — “ she must have thy thanks, not we. It 
seems that she came to my house, and finding me from home, 
sought thy brother in his temple ; he accompanied her to 
Arbaces ; on their way they encountered me, with a company 
of friends, whom thy kind letter had given me a spirit cheerful 
enough to join. Nydia’s quick ear detected my voice — a few 
words sufficed to make me the companion of Apaecides ; I told 
not my associates why I left them — could I trust thy name to 
their light tongues and gossiping opinion } Nydia led us to the 
garden-gate, by which we afterwards bore thee — we entered, and 
were about to plunge into the mysteries of that evil house, when 
we heard thy cry in another direction. Thou knowest the rest.** 

lone blushed deeply. She then raised her eyes to those of 
Glaucus, and he felt all the thanks she could not utter. “ Come 
hither, my Nydia,” said she, tenderly to the Thessalian. 

“ Did* I not tell thee that thou shouldst be my sister and 
friend ? Hast thou not already been more ? — my guardian, my 
preserver I ” 

“ It is nothing,” answered Nydia coldly, and without stir- 
ring. 

“ Ah ! I forgot,” continued lone, — “ I should come to thee : ” 
and she moved along the benches till she reached the place 
where Nydia sat, and flingjng her arms caressingly round her, 
covered her cheeks with kisses. 

Nydia was that morning paler than her wont, and her coun- 
tenance grew even more wan and colorless as she submitted to 
the embrace of the beautiful Neapolitan. “ But how earnest 
thou, Nydia,” whispered lone, “ to surmise so faithfully the 
danger I was exposed to ? Didst thou know aught of the Egyp^ 
tian ? ” 

“ Yes, I knew of his vices,^ 

“ And how? ” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


^S4 

NobJe lone, I have been a slave to the vicious — thosQ 
whom 1 served were his minions.’* 

“ And thou hast entered his house, since thou knewest so 
well that private entrance ? ” 

“ I have played on my lyre to Arbaces,” answered the Thes* 
salian, with embarrassment. 

“ And thou hast escaped the contagion from which thou hast 
saved lone ! ” returned the Neapolitan, in a voice too low for 
the ear of Glaucus. 

“ Noble lone, I have neither beauty nor station ; I am a 
child, and a slave, and blind. The despicable are ever safe.*' 

It was with a pained, and proud, and indignant tone that 
Nydia made this humble reply ; and lone felt that she only 
wounded Nydia by pursuing the subject. She remained silent 
and the bark now floated into the sea. 

“ Confess that I was right, lone,” said Glaucus, “ in prevail- 
ing on thee not to waste this beautiful noon in thy chamber— • 
confess that I was right.” 

“ Thou wert right, Glaucus,” said Nydia abruptly. 

“ The dear child speaks for thee,” returned the Athenian. 

“ But permit me to move opposite to thee, or our light boat 
will be overbalanced.” 

So saying, he took his seat exactly opposite to lone, and 
leaning forward, he fancied that it was hrr breath, and not the 
winds of summer, that flung fragrance over the 

“ Thou wert to tell me,” said Glaucus, “ why for so many 
days thy door was closed to me ? ” 

“ Oh, think of it no more ! ” answered lone, quickly ; “ I gave 
my ear to what I now know was the malice of slander.” 

“ And my slanderer was the Egyptian ? ” 

lone’s silence assented to the question. 

“ His motives are sufficiently obvious.” 

“Talk not of him,” said lone, covering her face with her 
hands, as if to shut out his very thought. 

“ Perhaps he may be already by the banks of the slow 
Styx,” resumed Glaucus ; “ yet in that case we should probably 
have heard of his death. Thy brother, methinks, hath felt the 
dark influence of his gloomy soul. When we arrived last night 
at thy house, he left me abruptly. Will he ever vouchsafe to 
be my friend ? ” 

“ He is consumed with some secret care,” answered lone 
tearfully. “ Would that we could lure him from himself I Let 
us join in that tender office.” 

“ He shall be my brother,” returned the Greek. 

“How calmly,” said lone, rousing herself from the gloom 


THE LAST DA KS* OF FOMPEII. 


*5S 

Into which her thoughts of Apaecides had plunged her — “ How 
calmly the clouds seem to repose in heaven ; a»A</ yet you tell 
me, for I knew it not myself, that the earth shook oeneath us 
last night.’' 

“ It did, and more violently, they say, than it has done since 
the great convulsion sixteen years ago : the land we live rn yet 
nurses mysterious terror ; and the reign of Pluto, which spreads 
beneath our burning fields, seems rent with unseen commc^iom 
Didst thou not feel the earthquake, Nydia, where thou wert 
seated last night ? and was it not the fear that it occasioned 
thee that made thee weep ? ” 

“ I felt the soil creep and heave beneath me, like some mon- 
strous serpent,” answered Nydia ; “ but as I saw nothing. I 
did not fear : I imagined the convulsion to be a spell of the 
Egyptian’s. They say he has power over the elements.’' 

“ Thou art a Thessalian, my Nydia,” replied Glaucus, “ and 
hast a national right to believe in magic.” 

** Magic I — who doubts it ? ” answered Nydia, simply : “ dos^ 
thou ? ” 

“Until last night (when a necromantic prodigy did indeed 
appal me), methinks I was not credulous in any other magic 
save that of love ! ” said Glaucus, in a tremulous voice and 
fixing his eyes on lone. 

“ Ah 1 ” said Nydia, with a sort of shiver, and she awoke 
mechanically a few pleasing notes fro n her lyre ; the sound 
suited well the tranquillity of the waters and the sunny stilines# 
of the noon. 

“ Play to us, dear Nydia,” said Glaucus, — “ play, and give 
us one of thine old Thessalian songs ; whether it be of magic 
or not, as thou wilt — let it, at least, be of love I ” 

“ Of love ! ” repeated Nydia, raising her large, wandering 
eyes, that ever thrilled those who saw them with a mingled feai 
and pity ; you could never familiarize yourself to their aspect : 
so strange did it seem that those dark wild orbs were ignorant 
of the day, and either so fixed was their deep mysterious gaze, 
or so restless and perturbed their glance, that you felt, when 
you encountered them, that same vague, and chilling, and halfi 
preternatural impression, which comes over you in the presence 
of the insane, — of those who having a life outwardly like your 
own, have a life within life — dissimilai — unsearchable — un- 
guessed ! 

“Will you that I should sing of love?” said she, fixing 
those eyes upon Glaucus. 

“ Yes,” replied he, looking down. 

She moved a little way from the arm of lone »tiU cast round 


1 26 the last da YS of POMPEII. 

her, as if that soft embrace embarrassed ; and placing her lighi 
and graceful instrument on her knee, after a short prelude, she 
sang the following strain ; — 

NYDIA’S LOVE-SONG. 


I. 

The Wind and the Beam loved the Rose, 
And the Rose loved one ; 

For who recks the wind where it blows ? 
Or loves not the sun ? 


II. 

None knew whence the humble Wind stole. 
Poor sport of the skies — 

None dreamt that the Wind had a soul. 

In its mournful sighs 1 

III. 

Oh, happy Beam 1 how canst thou prove 
That bright love of thine ? 

In thy light is the proof of thy love. 

Thou hast but — to shine 1 


IV. 

How its love can the Wind reveal ? 

Unwelcome its sigh ; 

Mute — mute to its Rose let it steal— 

Its proof is — to die 1 ” 

“ Thou singest but sadly, sweet girl,” said Glaucus ; ** thy 
youth only feels as yet the dark shadow of Love ; far other 
inspiration doth he wake, when he himself bursts and brightens 
upon us.” 

“ I sing as I was taught,” replied Nydia, sighing. 

“ Thy master was love-crossed then — try thy hand at a gayer 
air. Nay, girl, give the instrument to me.” As Nydia obeyed, 
her hand touched his, and, with that slight touch, her breast 
heaved — her cheek flushed. lone and Glaucus, occupied with 
each other, perceived not those signs of strange and premature 
emotions, which preyed upon a heart that, nourished by imag- 
ination, dispensed with hope. 

And now, broad, blue, bright before them, spread that halcyon 
sea, fair as at this moment, seventeen centuries from that date, 
I behold it rippling on the same divinest shores. Clime that 
yet enervates with a soft and Circean spell — that moulds us 
insensibly, mysteriously, into harmony with thyself, banishing 
the thought of austerer labor, the voices of wild ambition, the 
contests and the roar of life ; filling us with gentle and subduing 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


157 

dreams, making necessary to our nature that which is its least 
earthly portion, so that the very air inspires us with the yearning 
and thirst of love ! Whoever visits thee seems to leave earth 
and its harsh cares behind — to enter by the Ivory Gate into 
the Land of Dreams. The young and laughing Hours of the 
PRESENT — the Hours, those children of Saturn, which he 
hungers ever to devour, seem snatched from his grasp. . The 
past — the future — are forgotten ; we enjoy but the breathing 
time. Flower of the world’s garden — Fountain of Delight — 
Italy of Italy — beautiful, benign Campania ! — vain were, indeed, 
the Titans, if on this spot they yet struggled for another heaven. 
Here, if God meant this working-day life for a perpetual holiday, 
who would not sigh to dwell forever — asking nothing, hoping 
nothing, fearing nothing, while thy skies shine over him — while 
thy seas sparkle at his feet — while thine air brought him sweet 
messages from the violet and the orange — and while the heart, 
resigned to — beating with — but one emotion, could find the lips 
and the eyes, which flatter it (vanity of vanities !) that love can 
defy custom, and be eternal ? 

It was then in this clime — on those seas, that the Athenian 
gazed upon a face that might have suited the nymph, the spirit 
of the place ; feeding his eyes on the changeful roses of that 
softest cheek, happy beyond the happiness of common life, 
loving, and knowing himself beloved. 

In the tale of human passion, in past ages, there is some- 
thing of interest even in the remoteness of the time. We love 
to feel within us the bond which unites the most distant eras 
— men, nations, customs, perish ; the affections are im- 
mortal ! — they are the sympathies which unite the ceaseless 
generations. The past lives again, when we look upon its 
emotions — it lives in our own ! That which was, ever is ! The 
magician’s gift, that revives the dead — that animates the dust 
of forgotten graves, is not in the author’s skill — it is in the heart 
of the reader ! 

Still vainly seeking the eyes of lone, as half downcast, halt 
averted, they shunned his own, the Athenian, in a low and soft 
voice, thus expressed the feelings inspired by happier th^^- ughts 
than those which had colored the song of Nydia. 

THE SONG OF GLAUCUS. 


I. 

As the bark floated on o’er the summer-iit sea, 

Floats my heart o’er the deeps of its passion for thee; 
All lost in the space, without terror it glides. 

For bright with thy soul is the fao^ the tides. 


*S8 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIT. 


Now heaving, now hushed, is that passionate ocean« 

As it catches thy smile or thy sighs ; 

And the twin-stars* that shine on the wanderer’s devotkMV 
Its guide and its god — ^are thine eyes 1 

II. 

The bark may go down, should the cloud sweep above. 

For its being is bound to the light of thy love. 

As thy faith and thy smile are its life and its joy. 

So thy frown or thy change are the storms that destroy; 

Ah ! sweeter to sink while the sky is serene. 

If time hath a change for thy heart I 

If to live be to weep o’er what thou has been, 

Let me die while I know what thou art 1 ” 

As the last words of the song trembled over the sea, lone 
raised her looks — they met those of her lover. Happy Nydia I 
— happy in the affliction, that thou couldst not see that fasci- 
nated and charmed gaze, that said so much — that made the eye 
the voice of the soul — that promised the impossibility of change ! 

But, though the Thessalian could not detect that gaze, she 
divined its meaning by their silence — by their sighs. She 
pressed her hands tightly across her breast, as if to keep down 
its bitter and jealous thoughts ; and then she hastened to speak 
— for that silence was intolerable to her. 

“After all, O Glaucus !’* said she, “there is nothing very 
mirthful in your strain 1 ” 

“Yet I meant it to be so, when I took up the lyre, pretty 
one. Perhaps happiness will not permit us to be mirthful.” 

“How strange is it,” said lone, changing a conversation 
which oppressed her while it charmed, — “that for the last 
several days yonder cloud has hung motionless over Vesuvius 1 
Yet not indeed motionless, for sometimes it changes its form ; 
ana now methinks it looks like some vast giant, with an arm 
outstretched over the city. Dost thou see the likeness — or is 
it only to my fancy ? ” 

“ Fair lone ! I see it also. It is astonishingly distinct. 
The giant seems seated on the brow of the mountain, the dif- 
ferent shades of the cloud appear to form a white robe that 
sweeps over its vast breast and limbs ; it seems to gaze with a 
steady face upon the city below, to point with one hand, as 
thou sayest, over its glittering streets, and to raise the other 
(dost thou note it ?) towards the higher heaven. It is like the 
ghost of some huge Titan brooding over the beautiful world 
he lost ; sorrowful for the past — yet with something of menace 
for the future.” 

* An allusion to Dioscuri, or twin-stars, the guardian deity of the seamea 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


159 

“Could that mountain have any connection with the last 
night’s earthquake ? They say that, ages ago, almost in the 
earliest era of tradition, it gave forth fires as ^tna still. Per- 
haps the flames yet lurk and dart beneath.” 

“ It is possible,” said Glaucus, musingly. 

“Thou sayest thou art slow to believe in magic?” said 
Nydia suddenly. “ I have heard that a potent wi«^ch dwells 
amongst the scorched caverns of the mountain, and yon cloud 
may be the dim shadow of the demon she confers with.” 

“ Thou art full of the romance of thy native Thessaly,*^ 
said Glaucus ; “ and a strange mixture of sense and all conflict 
ing superstitions.” 

“ We are ever superstitious in the dark,” replied Nydia. 
“ Tell me,” she added, after a slight pause, “ tell me, O Glau- 
cus ! do all that are beautiful resemble each other ? They say 
you are beautiful, and lone also. Are your faces then the 
same ? I fancy not, yet it ought to be so I ” 

“ Fancy no such grievous wrong to lone,” answered Glau- 
cus, laughing. “But we do not, alas! resemble each other, 
as the homely and the beautiful sometimes do. lone’s hair is 
dark, mine light ; lone’s eyes are — what color, lone ? I cannot 
see, turn them to me. Oh, are they black ? no, they are too 
soft. Are they blue ? no, they are too deep : they change with 
every ray of the sun — I know not their color : but mine, sweet 
Nydia, are gray, and bright only when lone snines on them, 
lone’s cheek is ” 

“ I do not understand one word of thy description,” inter- 
rupted Nydia, peevishly. “I comprehend only that you do 
not resemble each other, and I am glad of it.” 

“ Why Nydia ? ’ said lone. 

Nydia coloi ed slightly. “ Because,” she said coldly, “ I have 
always imagined you under different forms, and one likes to 
know one is right.” 

“And what hast thou imagined Glaucus to resemble?’* 
asked lone, softly. 

“ Music 1 ” replied Nydia, looking down. 

“Thou art right,'’ thought lone. 

“ And what likeness has thou ascribed to lone ? ” 

“ I cannot tell yet,” answered the blind gir^ • “ I have not 
yet known her long enough to find a shape and sign for my 
guesses.” 

“ I will tell thee, then,” said Glaucus, passionately : “ she 
is like the sun that warms— like the wave that refreshes.” 

“The sun sometimes scorches, and the wave sometimes 
drowns,” answered Nydia. 


l 6 o the last da ys of pompeti. 

“ Take then these roses,” said Glaucus ; “ let their fragrance 
tsuggest to thee lone.” 

“ Alas, the roses will fade ! ” said the Neapolitan, archly. 

Th IS conversing, they wore away the hourj ; the lOvers 
conscious only of the brightness and smiles of love •, the blind 
girl feeling only its darkness — its tortures ; — the fierceness of 
jealousy and its woe ! 

And now as they drifted on Glaucus once more resumed 
the lyre and woke its strings with a careless hand to a strain 
so wildly and gladly beautiful that even Nydia was roused 
from her reverie and uttered a cry of admiration. 

“Thou seest, my child,” cried Glaucus, “that I can yet 
redeem the character of love’s music, and that I was wrong in 
saying happiness could not be gay. Listen, Nydia 1 listen, dear 
lone 1 and hear 


THE BIRTH OF LOVE.* 


“ Like a Star in the seas above, 

Like a Dream to the waves of sleep. 

Up — up — THE INCARNATE LOVE — 

She rose from the charmed deep I 
And over the Cyprian Isle 
The skies shed their silent smile ; 

And the Forest’s green heart was rife 
With the stir of the gushing life — 

The life that had leap’d to birth, 

In the veins of the happy earth ! 

Hail ! oh, haU I 
The dimmest sea cave below thee, 

The farthest sky-arch above, • 

In their innermost stillness know theet 
And heave with the Birth of Love. 

Gale ! soft Gale I 
Thou comest on thy silver winglets. 

From thy home in the tender west ; t 
Now fanning her golden ringlets, 

Now hush’d on her heaving breast. 
And afar on the murmuring sand. 

The Seasons wait hand in hand 
To welcome thee, Birth Divine, 

To the earth which is henceforth thine. 


* Suggested by a picture of Venus rising from the sea, taken from Pom- 
peii, and now in the Museum of Naples. 

t According to the ancient mythologists, Venus rose from the sea neai 
C)rprus,to which inland she was wafted by the Zephyrs. The Seasons waited 
to welcome her on the sea-shore. 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEU. 
\ 




II. 

Behold I how she kneels in the shell; 
Bright pean an its floating cell ! 

Behold 1 how the shell’s rose-hues 
The cheek and the breast of snow 
And the delicate limbs suffuse 
Like a blush with a bashful glow. 

Sailing on, slowly sailing 
O’er the wild water; 

All hail 1 as the fond light is hailing 
Her daughter 1 

All hail ! 

We are thine, all thine evermore: 

Not a leaf on the laughing shore. 

Not a wave on the heaving sea. 

Nor a single sigh 
In the boundless sky, 

But is vow’d evermore to thee I 

III. 

“ And thou, my beloved one — thou. 

As I gaze on thy soft eyes now, 

Methinks from their depths I view 
The Holy Birth born anew ; 

Thy lids are the gentle cell 

Where the young Love blushing lieS} 
See I she breaks from the mystic shell. 
She comes from thy tender eyes ! 

Hail ! all hail ! 

She comes as she came from the sea. 

To my soul as it looks on thee ; 

She comes, she comes ! 

She comes as she came from the sea. 

To my soul as it looks on thee ! 

HaUl all hail!” 


CHAPTER III. 

THE CONGREGATION. 

Followed by Apaecides the Nazarene gained the side of 
the Sarnus ; — that river, which now has shrunk into a petty 
stream, then rushed gaily into the sea covered with countless 
vessels, and reflecting on its waves the gardens, the vines, the 
palaces, and the temples of Pompeii. From its more noisy and 
frequented banks Olinthus directed his steps to a path which 
ran amidst a shady vista of trees at the distance of a few paces 
from the river. This w^alk was in the evening a favorite resort 
of the Pompeians, but during the heat and business of the day 


102 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


was seldom visited, save by some groups of playful children, 
some meditative poet, or some disputative philosophers. At 
the side farthest from the river frequent copses of box inter 
spersed the more delicate and evanescent foliage, and these 
were cut into a thousand quaint shapes, sometimes into the 
forms of fauns and satyrs, sometimes into the mimicry of 
Egyptian pyramids, sometimes into the letters that composed 
the name of a popular or eminent citizen. Thus the false taste 
is equally ancient as the pure : and the retired traders of Hack-' 
ney and Paddington, a century ago, were little aware, perhaps, ' 
that in their tortured yews and sculptured box, they found 
their models in the most polished period of Roman antiquity, in 
the gardens of Pompeii, and the villas of the fastidious Pliny, 

This walk now, as the noonday sun shone perpendiculaily 
through the checkered leaves, was entirely deserted; at least 
no other forms than those of Olinthus and the priest infringed 
upon the solitude. They sat themselves on one of the benches, 
placed at intervals between the trees, and facing the faint breeze 
that came languidly from the river, whose waves, danced and 
sparkled before them ; — a singular and contrasted pair ; the 
believer in the latest — the priest of the most ancient — worship 
of the world ! 

“ Since thou leftst me so abruptly,” said Olinthus, “hast thou 
been happy? has thy heart found contentment under these 
priestly robes ? hast thou, still yearning for the voice of God, 
heard it whisper comfort to thee from the oracles of Isis? 
That sigh, that averted countenance, give me the answer my 
soul predicted.” 

“ Alas ! ” answered Apaecides, sadly, “ thou seest before thee 
a wretched and distracted man I From my childhood upward 
I have idolized the dreams of virtue I I have envied the holi- 
nesy of men who, in caves and lonely temples, have been ad- 
mitted to the companionship of beings above the world : my 
days have been consumed with feverish and vague desires; 
my nights with mocking but solemn visions. Seduced by the 
mystic prophecies of an impostor, I have indued those robes ; — 
my nature (I confess it to thee frankly) — my nature has revolted 
at what 1 have seen and been doomed to share in ! Searching 
after truth, I have become the minister of falsehoods. On the 
evening in which we last met, I was buoyed I / hopes created 
by that same impostor, whom I ought already to have better 
known. I have — no matter — no matter ! suffice it, I have added 
perjury and sin to rashness and to sorrow. The veil is now rent 
forever from my eyes ; I behold a villain where I obeyed a 
demigod ; the earth darkens in my sight ; I am in the deepest 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


163 

abyss of gloom ; I know not if there be gods above ; if we are 
the things of chance ; if beyond the bounded and melancholy 
present there is annihilation or an hereafter — tell me, then, thy 
faith ; solve me these doubts, if thou hast indeed the power ! ” 

“I do not marvel,” answered theNazarene, “that thou hast 
thus erred, or that thou art thus skeptic. Eighty years ago there 
was no assurance to man of God, or of a certain and definite 
future beyond the grave. New laws are declared to him who 
has ears — a heaven, a true Olympus, is revealed to him who has 
eyes — heed then, and listen.” 

And with all the earnestness of a man believing ardently 
himself, and zealous to convert, the Nazarene poured forth to 
Apsecides the assurance of Scriptural promise. He spoke first 
of the sufferings and the miracles of Christ — he wept as he spoke; 
he turned next to the glories of the Saviour’s ascension — to the 
clear predictions of Revelation. He described that pure and 
unsensual heaven destined to the virtuous — those fires and tor- 
ments that were the doom of guilt. 

The doubts which spring up to the mind of later reasoners, 
in the immensity of the sacrifice of God to man, were not such 
as would occur to an early heathen. He had been accustomed 
to believe that the gods had lived upon earth, and taken upon 
themselves the forms of men ; had shared in human passions, 
in human labors and in human misfortunes. What was the 
travail of his own Alcmaena’s son whose altars now smoked 
with incense of countless cities, but a toil for the human race ? 
Had not the great Dorian Apollo expiated a mystic sin by de- 
scending to the grave ? Those who were the deities of heaven 
had been the law-givers or benefactors on earth, and gratitude 
had led to worship. It seemed therefore, to the heathen, 
a doctrine neither new nor strange, that Christ had been 
sent from heaven, that an immortal had indued mortality, and 
tasted the bitterness of death. And the end for which He 
thus toiled and thus suffered — how far more glorious did it 
seem to Apaecides than that for which the deities of old had 
visited the nether world, and passed through the gates of 
death ! Was it not worthy of a God to descend to these dim val- 
leys, in order to clear up the clouds gathered over the dark 
mount beyond — to satisfy the doubts of sages — to convert 
speculation into certainty — ^by example to point out the rules of 
life — by revelation to solve the enigma of the grave — and prove 
that the soul did not yearn in vain when it dreamed of an im* 
mortality t In this last was the great argument of those lowly 
men destinea 10 convert the earth. As nothing is more flatter^ 
ing to the pride and the hopes of man than the belief in a fu* 


THE, LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


164 

ture state, so nothing could be more vague and confused than 
the notions of the heathen sages upon that mystic subject. 
Apaecides had already learned that the faith of the philosophers 
was not that of the herd ; that if they secretly professed a 
a creed in some diviner power, it was not the creed which they 
thought it wise to impart to the community. He had already 
learned, that even the priest ridiculed what he preached to the 
people — that the notions of the few and the many were never 
united. But in this new faith, it seemed to him that the philos- 
ophers, priests, and people, the expounders of the religion and 
its followers, were alike accordant ; they did not speculate and 
debate upon immortality, they spoke of it as a thing certain and 
assured ; the magnificence of the promise dazzled him — its con- 
solation soothed. For the Christian faith made its early 
converts among sinners ! many of its fathers and its martyrs 
were those who had felt the bitterness of vice, and who were 
therefore no longer tempted by its false aspect from the paths 
of an austere and uncompromising virtue. All the assurances 
of this healing faith invited to repentance — they were peculiarly 
adapted to the bruised and sore of spirit ; the very remorse 
which Apaecides felt for his late excesses, made him incline to 
one who found holiness in that remorse, and who whispered of 
the joy in heaven over one sinner that reperteth. 

“ Come,” said the Nazarene, as he perceived the effect he 
had produced, “ come to the hum ole hall in which we meet — a 
select and a chosen few ; listen there to our prayers ; note the 
sincerity of our repentant tears ; mingle in our simple sacrifice — 
not of victims, nor of garlands, but offered by white-robed 
thoughts upon the altar of the heart. The flowers that we lay 
there are imperishable — they bloom over us when we are no 
more ; nay, they accompany us beyond the grave, they spring 
up beneath our feet in heaven, they delight us with an eternal 
<)dor, for they are of the soul, they partake of its nature ; these 
offerings are temptations overcome, and sins repented. Come, 
oh, come ! lose not another moment ; prepare already for the 
great, the awful journey, from darkness to light, from sorrow to 
bliss, from corruption to immortality ! This is the day of the 
Lord the Son, a day that we have set apart for our devotions. 
Though we meet usually at night, yet some amongst us are 
gathered together even now. What joy, what triumph, will be 
with us all, if we can bring one stray lamb into the sacred fold ! ” 

There seemed to Apaecides, so naturally pure of heart, some- 
thing ineffably generous and benign in that spirit of conversion 
which animated Olinthus — a spirit that found its own bliss in 
the happiness of others — that sought in its wide sociality to 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 


* 6 $ 

make companions for eternity. He was touched, softened, and 
subdued. He was not in that mood which can bear to be left 
alone ; curiosity, too, mingled with his purer stimulants — he was 
anxious to see those rites of which so many dark and contradic- 
tory rumors were afloat. He paused a moment, looked over 
his garb, thought of Arbaces, shuddered with horror, lifted his 
eyes to the broad brow of the Nazarene, intent, anxious, watch- 
ful — but for his benefit, for his salvation ! He drew his cloak 
round him, so as wholly to conceal his robes, .ind said, Lead 
on, 1 follow thee.” 

Olinthus pressed his hand joyfully, and then descending 
ta the riverside, hailed one of the boats that plied there con- 
stantly ; they entered it ; an awning overhead, while it sheltered 
them from the sun, screened also their persons from observa- 
tion : they rapidly skimmed the wave. From one of the boats 
that passed them floated a soft music, and its prow was dec- 
orated with flowers — it was gliding towards the sea. 

“ So,” said Olinthus, sadly, “ unconscious and mirthful in 
their delusions, sail the votaries of luxury into the great ocean 
of storm and shipwreck ; we pass them, silent and unnoticed 
to gain the land.” 

Apascides, lifting his eyes, caught through the aperture in 
the awning a glimpse of the face of one of the inmates of that 
gay bark — it was the face of lone. The lovers were embarked 
on the excursion at which we have been made present. The 
priest sighed, and once more sunk back upon his seat. They 
reached the shore where, in the suburbs, an alley of small and 
mean houses stretched towards the bank ; they dismissed the 
boat, landed, and Olinthus, preceding the priest, threaded the 
labyrinth of lanes, and arrived at last at the closed door of a 
habitation somewhat larger than its neighbors. He knocked 
thrice — the door was opened and closed again, as Apaecides 
followed his guide across the threshold. 

They passed a deserted atrium, and gained an inner cham- 
ber of moderate size, which, when the door was closed, received 
its only light from a small window cut over the door itself. 
But, halting at the threshold of this chamber, and knocking 
at the door, Olinthus said, “ Peace be with you ! ” A voice 
from within returned, “ Peace with whom } ” “ The Faithful ! ” 

answered Olinthus, and the door opened ; twelve or fourteen 
persons were sitting in a semicircle, silent, and seemingly ab- 
sorbed in thought, and opposite to a crucifix rudely carved in 
wood. 

They lifted up their eyes when Olinthus entered, without 
speaking ; the Nazarene himself, before he accosted them, knelt 


i66 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


suddenly down, and by his moving lips, and his eyes fixed 
steadfastly, on the crucifix, Apaecides saw that he prayed inly. 
This rite performed, Olinthus turned to the congregation — • 
** Men and brethren," said he, “ start not to behold amongst 
you a priest of Isis ; he hath sojourned with the blind, but the 
Spirit hath fallen on him — he desires to see, to hear, and to un- 
derstand." 

“ Let him," said one of the assembly ; and Apaecides beheld 
in the speaker a man still younger than himself, of a counte- 
ance equally worn and pallid, of an eye which equally spoke of 
the restless and fiery operations of a working mind. 

“ Let him," repeated a second voice, and he who thus spoke 
was in the prime of manhood ; his bronzed skin and Asiatic 
features bespoke him a son of Syria — he had been a robber in 
his youth. 

“ Let him," said a third voice ; and the priest, again turning 
to regard the speaker, saw an old man with a long gray beard, 
whom he recognized as a slave to the wealthy Diomed. 

“Let him," repeated simultaneously the rest — men who, 
with two exceptions, were evidently of the inferior ranks. In 
these exceptions, Apsecides noted an officer of the guard, and 
an Alexandrian merchant. 

“ We do not," recommenced Olinthus — “ we do not bind you 
to secrecy ; we impose on you no oaths (as some of our weaker 
brethren would do) not to betray us. It is true, indeed, that 
there is no absolute law against us ; but the multitude, more 
savage than their rulers, thirst for our lives. So my friends, 
when Pilate would have hesitated, it was the people who shouted 
* Christ to the cross ! ' But we bind you not to our safety — no ! 
Betray us to the crowd — impeach, calumniate, malign us if you 
will : — we are above death, we should walk cheerfully to the 
den of the lion, or the rack of the torturer — we can trample 
down the darkness of the grave, and what is death to a criminal 
is eternity to the Christian.” 

A low and applauding murmur ran through the assembly. 

“ Thou comest amongst us as an examiner, niayest thou re- 
main a convert ! Our religion ? you behold it ! Yon cross our 
sole image, yon scroll the mysteries of our Caere and Eleusis 1 
Our morality 1 it is in our lives ! — sinners we all have been ; 
who now can accuse us of a crime ? we have baptized ourselves 
from the past. Think not that this is of us, it is of God. Ap- 
proach, Medon," beckoning to the old slave who had spoken 
third for the admission of Apaecides, “thou art the sole man 
amongst us who is not free. But in heaven, the last shall 
be first : so with us. Unfold your scroll, read and explain,” 


THE LAS7 DA VS OF POMPEII, 


167 

Useless would it be for us to accompany the lecture of I>xedon 
or the comments of the congregation. Familiar row j re those 
doctrines, then strange and new. Eighteen centuries have left 
us little to expound upon the lore of Scripture ot the iite of 
Christ. To us, too, there would seem little congenial in the 
doubts that occurred to a heathen priest, and little learned in 
the answers they received from men uneducated, rude, and 
simple, possessing only the knowledge that they were greater 
than they seemed. 

There was one thing that greatly touched the Neapolitan ; 
when the lecture was concluded, they heard a very gentle knock 
at the door ; the password was given, and replied to ; the door 
opened, and two young children, the eldest of whom might 
have told its seventh year, entered timidly • they were the 
children of the master of the house, that dark and hardy 
Syrian, whose youth had been spent in pillage and bloodshed. 
The eldest of the congregation (it was that old slave) opened 
to them his arms ; they fled to the shelter — they crept to his 
breast — and Ids hard features smiled as he caressed them. 
And then these bold and fervent men, nursed in vicissitude, 
beaten by the rough winds of life — men of mailed and imper- 
vious fortitude, ready to affront a world, prepared for torment 
and armed for death — men who presented all imaginable con 
trast to the weak nerves, the light hearts, the tender fragility of 
childhood, crowded round the infants, smoothing their rugged 
brows and composing their bearded lips to kindly and foster- 
ing smiles : and then the old man opened the scroll, and he 
taught the infants to repeat after him that beautiful prayer 
which we still dedicate to the Lord, and still teach to our chil- 
dren ; and then he told them, in simple phrase, ot God’s love 
to the young, and how not a sparrow falls but His eye sees it 
This lovely custom of infant initiation was long cherished by the 
early Church, in memory of the words which, said “suffer little 
children to come unto me, and forbid them not ; ” and was per- 
haps the origin of the superstitious calumny which ascribed to the 
Nazarenes the crime which the Nazarene, when victorious, 
attributed to the Jew, viz., the decoying to hideous rites, at 
which they were secretly immolated. 

And the stern paternal penitent seemed to feel in the inno- 
cence of his children a return into early life — life ere yet it 
sinned : he followed the motion of their young lips with an 
earnest gaze ; he smiled as they repeated, with hushed and 
reverent looks, the holy words ; and when the lesson was done, 
and they ran, released, and gladly to his knee, he clasped them 
to his breast, kissed them again and again, and tears flowed 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


Vast down his cheeks — ^tears, of which it would have been impossl' 
bie to trace the source, so mingled they were with joy and sor- 
row, penitence and hope — remorse for himself and love for 
them i 

Something, I say, there was in this scene which peculiarly 
affected Apaecides ; and, in truth, it is difficult to conceive a 
ceremony more appropriate to the religion of benevolence, 
more appealing to the household and every-day affections, strik- 
ing a more sensitive chord in the human breast. 

It was at this time that an inner door opened gently, and 
a very cld man entered the chamber, leaning on a staff. At 
his presence the whole congregation rose ; there was an ex- 
pression of deep, affectionate respect upon every countenance ; 
and Apaecides, gazing on his countenance, felt attracted to- 
wards him by an irresistible sympathy. No man overlooked 
upon that face without love ; for there had dwelt the smile of 
the Deity, the incarnation of divinest love ; — and the glory of 
the smile had never passed away. 

“ My children, God be with you ! ” said the old man, stretch- 
ing his arms ; and as he spoke, the infants ran to his knee. 
He sat down and they nestled fondly to his bosom. It was 
beautiful to see that mingling of the extremes of life — the 
rivers gushing from their early source — the majestic stream 
gliding to the ocean of eternity ! As the light of declining day 
seems to mingle earth and heaven, making the outline of each 
scarce visible, and blending the harsh mountain-tops with the 
sky, even so did the smile of that benign old age appear to 
hallow the aspect of those around, to blend together the strong 
distinctions of varying years, and to diffuse over infancy and 
manhood the light of that heaven into which it must so soon 
vanish and be lost. 

“ Father,” said Olinthus, “ thou on whose form the miracle 
of the Redeemer worked ^ thou who wert snatchea from the 
grave to become the living witness of His mercy and His 
power ; behold ! a stranger in our meeting — a new lamb gath- 
ered to the fold ! ” 

“ Let me bless him,” said the old man : the throng gave 
way. Apaecides approached him as by an instinct ; he fell on 
his knees before him — the old man laid his hand on the priest’s 
head, and blessed him, but not aloud. As his lips moved, his 
eyes were upturned, and tears — those tears that good men 
only shed in the hope of happiness to another — flowed fast 
down his cheeks. 

The children were on either side of the convert ; his hean 
was theirs — he had become as one of them — ^to enter into tne 
kingdom of Heaven. 


r4iE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


T69 


CHAPTER IV. 

The stream of love runs on — ^whither? 

Days are like years in the love of the young, when no bar, 
no obstacle, is between their hearts — when the sun shines, a: d 
the course runs smooth — when their love prosperous and 
confessed. lone no longer concealed from Glaucus the attach- 
ment she felt for him, and their talk now was mly of their love. 
Over the rapture of the present, the hopes of the future glowed 
like the heaven above the gardens 01 spring. They went in 
their trustful thoughts far down the stream of time ; they laid 
out the chart of their destiny to come , they uffered the light 
of to-day to suffuse the morrow. In the vouth ri their hearts 
it seemed as if care, and change, and v*eath, were ? things 
imknown. Perhaps they loved each other the *.iore, because 
the condition of the world left to Glaucus no aim •'.id no wish 
but lo 'e , because the distractions common in tree ''tates to 
men’s affection existed not for the Athenian ; because his coun- 
try wooea him not to the bustle of civil life*, because nmbition 
furnished no counterpoise to love : and, ther .ore, over their 
schemes and their projects, love only .eip:ne . In the iron 
age they imagined themselves of the golden, ^’oomed only to 
live an. to love. 

To the superficial observer, who interest' himself only in 
characters strongly marked and broadly colored, ootn the lovers 
may seem of too slight and commonplace* a mould : in che delin- 
eation of characters purposely subdued the r'^adcx sometimes im- 
agines that *here is a want of character; perhaps, indeed, I 
wrong the r d nature of these two lovers by not painting more 
impressivei^'^ then stronger individualities. But in I veiling so 
much on thel * bright and bird-like existence, I am influenced al- 
most insensibly by the forethought of the changes that await 
them, and for which they are so ill prepared. It was this very 
softness and gayety of .de that contrasted most strongly the 
vicissitudes of cheir coming fate. For the oak without fruit zr 
blossom, whose hard and -ugged hear*- is fitted for "^he storm, 
there is less fear than for the delicate bra.iches of the myrtle, 
and the laughing clusters of the vine. 

They had now advanced far into August — ^the next month 


170 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


their marriage was fixed, aiid the threshold of Glaucus was 
a*ready wreathed with garlands ; and nightly, by the door if 
ione, he poured fDrth the rich lilations. He existed no longer 
for his gay companions; he was 2 ver with lone. In the morn* 
ingL they beguiled the sun with music; in the evenings they 
forsook th.. crowded haunts of the gay for excursions on the 
water, or along the .ertiH and vine-clad plains that lay beneath 
the fatal mount of Vesuvius. The earth shook no more ; the 
jrvel} Pompeians forgot ^ven that there had gone forth so terri- 
ible a war. ing of their approaching doom. Glaucus imagined 
that convulsion, in the vanity of his heathen religion, an espe- 
cial interposition of che gods, .ess in behalf ^f his own safety 
than that of lone. He offered up the sacrifices of gratitude at 
the temples of his faith , and even the altar of Isis was covered 
with hi. votiv' gaslands ; — as to the prodigy of the animated 
marble, he biushed at the effect it had produced on him. He 
believed it, mdeed, to have been wrought by the magic of man ; 
but the result convinced him that it betokened n">t the anger of 
a goddess. 

Of Arbaces, they heard only that he still lived ; stretched on 
the bed of suffe ng, he recovered slowly from the effect of the 
shock had sustained — he left the lovers unmolested — but it 
was only to brood over the hour and the method of revenge. 

Alike in their mornings at the house of lone, and in their 
evening excursions, Nydia was usually their constan., and often 
their role companion. They did not guess the secret fires 
which onsumed her : — the abrupt freedom with which she min- 
gled ill their conversation — her capricious and often her peevish 
moods found ready indulgence in the recollection cf the service 
they ''wed her, and their compassion for her affliction. 7'hey 
felt an interest in her, perhaps the greater and more affection- 
ate from the very strangeness and waywardness of her nature, 
1 r singular alternations of passion and softness — the mixture 
of orance and genius — of delicacy and rudeness — of the 
quick humors of the child, and the proud calmness of the 
woman. Although rhe refused to accept of freedom, she was 
constan Jy suff^r-d to be free ; she went where she listed : no 
curb wa nu": either on her words or actions • they felt for one 
so dark*^ fated, and so susceptible of every wound, the same 
pi^:ying and compliant indulgence the mother feels for a spoiled 
:*nd sickly ^h.ld, — »^reading to impose authority, even where 
they imagi.ijd it . r her benefit. She availed herself of this 
license by refusing the companionship of the slave whom they 
wi,.iiicd to attend her. With the slender staff by which she 
guided he: steps, she went now, as m her former unprotected 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


171 

State, along the populous streets : it was almost miraculous to 
perceive how quickly and how dexterously she threaded every 
crowd, avoiding every danger, and could find her benighted 
way through the most .‘ntricate windings of the city. But her 
chief delight was still in visiting the few feet of ground which 
made the garden of Glaucus ; — in tending the flowers that at 
least repaid her love. Sometimes she entered the chamber 
where he sat, and sought a conversation, which she nearly 
always broke off abruptly — for conversation with Glaucus only^ 
tended to one subject — lone; and that name from his lips in- 
flicted agony upon her. Often she bitterly repented the ser- 
vice she had rendered to lone ; often she said inly, “ If she 
had fallen, Glaucus could have loved her no longer ; ” and 
then dark and fearful thoughts crept into her breast. 

She had not experienced fully the trials that were in store 
for her, when she had been thus generous. She had never 
before been present when Glaucus and lone wer:i together ; 
she had never heard that voice so kind to her, so much softer 
to another. The shock that crushed her heart wiLh the tidings 
that Glaucus loved, had at first only saddened and benumbed ; 
— by degrees jealousy took a wilder and fiercer shape ; it par- 
took of hatred — it whispered revenge. As you see the wind 
only agitate the green leaf upon the bough, while the leaf which 
has lain withered and seared on the ground, bruised and tram- 
pled upon, till the sap and life are gone, is suddenly whirled 
aloft — now here — now there — without stay and without rest; 
so the love whicn visits the happy and the hopeful hath but 
freshness on its wings ! its violence is but sportive. But the 
heart that hath fallen from the green things of life, that is 
without hope, that hath no summer in its fibres ; is torn and 
whirled by the same wind that but caresses its brethren ; — it 
hath no bough to cling to — it is dashed from path to path — 
till the winds fall and it is crushed bt 5 the mire forever. 

The friendless childhood of Nydia had hardened prema- 
turely her character , perhaps the heated scenes of profligacy 
through which she had passed, seemingly unscathed, had 
ripened her passions though they had not sullied her purity. 
The orgies of Burbo might only have disgusted, the banquets 
of the Egyptian mignt only have terrified, at the moment ; but 
the wind., tha^ oassed unheeded over the soil leave seeds behind 
them. As darkness, too, lavors the hnaginati m, so, perhaps, 
her very blindness contributed to feed with wild and delirious 
visions the love of the unfortunate giil. The voice of Glaucus 
had been the first that had sounaed musically to her ear ; his 
kindness made a deep impression ”pc .^er mind ; when ii6 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


172 

had left Pompeii in the former year, she had treasured up ia 
her heart every word he had uttered ; and when anyone told 
her that this friend and patron of the poor flower-girl was the 
most brilliant and the most graceful of the young revellers of 
Pompeii, she had felt a pleasing pride in nursing his recollec- 
tion. Even the task which she imposed upon herself, of tend- 
ing his flowers, served to keep him in her mind ; she associated 
him with all that was the most charming to her impressions ; 
and when she had refused to express what image she fancied 
lone to resemble, it was partly, perhaps, that whatever was bright 
and soft in nature she had already combined with the thought 
of Glaucus. If any of my readers ever loved at an age which 
they would now smile to remember — an age in which fancy fore- 
stalled the reason ; let them say whether that love, among all its 
strange and complicated delicacies, was not, above all other and 
later passions, susceptible of jealousy? I seek not here the 
cause : I know that it is commonly the fact. 

When Glaucus returned to Pompeii, Nydia had told another 
year of life : that year, with its sorrows, its loneliness, its trials, 
had greatly developed her mind and heart ; and when the 
Athenian drew her unconsciously to his breast, deeming her still 
in soul as in years a child — ^when he kissed her smooth cheek, 
and wound his arm around her trembling frame, Nydia felt Sud- 
denly, and as by revelation, that those feelings she had long and 
innocently cherished were of love. Doomed to be rescued from 
tyranny by Glaucus — doomed to take shelter under his roof — 
doomed to breathe, but for so brief a time, the same air — and 
doomed, in che first rush of a thousand happy, grateful, delicious 
sentiments of an overflowing heart, to hear that he loved another j 
to be commissioned to that other, the messenger, the minister ; 
CO feel all at once that utter nothingness which she was — which 
she ever must be, but which, till then, her young mind had not 
taught her, — that utter nothingness to him who was all to her ; 
what wonder that, in her wild and passionate soul, all the ele- 
ments jar’-ed discordant ; that if love reigned over the whole, it 
was not the love which is born of the more sacred and soft 
emotions ? Sometimes she dreaded only lest Glaucus should 
discover her secret ; sometimes she felt indignant that it was 
suspected ; it was a sign of contempt — could he imagine that 
she presumed so far? Her feelings to lone ebbed and flowed 
with every hour ; now she loved her because he did ; now she 
hated her for the same cause. There were moments when she 
could have murdered her unconscious mistress : moments when 
she could have laid down life for her. These fierce and tremu- 
lous alternations of passion were too severe to be borne long 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


173 

Her health gave way, though she felt it not — her cheek paled — < 
her steps grew feebler — ^tears came to her eyes more often, and 
relieved her less. 

One morning when she repaired to her usual task in the 
garden of the Athenian, she found Glaucus under the columns 
of the peristyle, with a merchant of the town ; he was selecting 
jewels for his destined bride. He had already fitted up her 
apartment ; the jewels he bought that day w^ere placed also within 
it — they were never fated to grace the fair form of lone ; they 
may be seen at this day among the disinterred treasures of 
Pompeii, in the chambers of the studio at Naples.* 

“ Come hither, Nydia ; put down thy vase, and come hither. 
Thou must take this chain from me — stay — there, I have put 
it on. — There, Servilius, does it not become her ? ” 

Wonderfully ! ” answered the jeweller : for jewellers were 
well-bred and flattering men, even at that day. “ But when these 
ear-rings glitter in the ears of the noble lone, then, by Bacchus 
you will see whether my art adds an5^hing to beauty. 

“ lone 1 ” repeated Nydia, who had hitherto acknowledged 
by smiles and blushes the gift of Glaucus. 

“ Yes,” replied the Athenian, carelessly toying with the 
gems ; “ I am choosing a present for lone, but there are none 
worthy of her.” 

He was startled as he spoke by an abrupt gesture of Nydia ; 
she tore the chain violently from her neck, and dashed it on 
the ground. 

How is this ? What, Nydia, dost thou not like the bauble ? 
art thou offended ? ” 

^ You treat me ever as a slave and as a child,” replied the 
Thessalian, with a breast heaving with ill-suppressed sobs, and 
she turned hastily away to the opposite corner of the garden. 

Glaucus did not attempt to follow, or to soothe ; he was 
offended ; he continued to examine the jewels and to comment 
on their fashion — to object to this and to praise that, and 
finally to be talked by the merchant into buying all ; the safest 
plan for a lover, and a plan that anyone will do right to 
adopt, — provided always that he can obtain an lone ! 

When he had completed his purchase and dismissed the 
jeweller, he retired into his chamber, dressed, mounted his char- 
iot, and went to lone. He thought no more of the blind girl, 
or her offence ; he had forgotten both the one and the other. 

He spent the forenoon with his beautiful Neapolitan, re- 
paired thence to the baths, supped (if, as we have said before, 
we can justly so translate the three o’clock mna of the Romans) 

* Several bracelets, chains, and jewels, were found in the house. 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEIL 


174 

alone, and abroad, for Pompeii had its restaurateurs : — and re^ 
turning home to change his dress ere he again repaired to the 
house of lone, he passed the peristyle, but with the absorbed 
reverie and absent eyes of a man in love, and did not note the 
form of the poor blind girl, bending exactly in the same place 
where he had left her. But though he saw her not, her ear 
recognized at once the sound of his step. She had been counting 
the moments of his return. He had scarcely entered his favor- 
ite chamber, which opened on the peristyle, and seated him- 
self musingly on his couch, when he felt his robe timorously 
touched, and turning, he beheld Nydia kneeling before him, 
and holding up to him a handful of flowers — a gentle and ap- 
propriate peace-offering ; — her eyes, darkly upheld to his own, 
streamed with tears. 

I have offended thee,” said she, sobbing, “ and for the first 
time. I would die rather than cause thee a moment’s pain — » 
say that thou wilt forgive me. See ! I have taken up the chain ; 
I have put it on ; I will ’lever part from it — it is thy gift.” 

“ My dear Nydia,” returned Glaucus, and raising her, he 
kissed her forehead, “ think of it no more ! But why, my 
child, wert thou so suddenly angry ? I could not divine th^ 
cause !” 

“ Do not ask ! ” said she, coloring violently. “ I am a thing 
full of faults and humors ; you know I am but a child — you say 
so often : is it from a child that you can expect a reason for 
every folly ? ” 

“ But, prettiest, you will soon be a child no more ; and if 
you would have us treat you as a woman, you must learn to 
govern these singular impulses and gales of passion. Think 
not I chid 3 : no, it is for your happiness only I speak.” 

“ It is true,” said Nydia, “ I must learn to govern myself, 
I must hide, I must suppress, my heart. This is a woman'j 
task and auty ; methinks her virtue is hypocrisy.” 

“ Self-control is not deceit, my Nydia,” returned the Athe- 
nian ; “ and that is the virtue necessary alike to man and to 
woman : it is the true senatorial toga, the badge of the dignity 
it covers.” 

“ Self-control ! self-control ! Well, well, what you say is 
right ! When I listen to you, Glaucus, my wildest thoughts 
grow calm and sweet, and a delicious serenity falls over me; 
Advise, ah ! guide me ever, my preserver !” 

“ Thy affectionate heart will be thy best guide, Nydia, 
when thou hast learned to regulate its feelings.” 

“ Ah 1 that will be never,” sighed Nydia, wiping away hei 
tears. 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII, 


m 


“ Say not so : the first effort is the only difficult one. 

I have made many first efforts,” answered Nydia, inno* 
cently. “ But you, my Ivlentor, do you find it so easy to con- 
trol yourself ? Can you conceal, can you even regulate, youi 
love for lone ? ” 

“Love! dear Nydia: ah! that is quite another matter,” 
answered the young preceptor. 

“ I thought so ! ” ■'•eturned Nydia, with a melancholy smile. 
“ Glaucus, wilt thou take my poor flowers ? Do with them as 
thou wilt — thou canst give them to lone,” added she, with a 
1/tJle hesitation. 

“ Nay, Nydia,” answered Glaucus, kindly, divining some- 
thing of jealousy in her language, though he imagined it only 
the jealousy of a vain and susceptible child ; “ I will not give 
thy pretty flowers to anyone. Sit here and weave them into 
a garland ; I will wear it this night : it is not the first those 
delicate fingers have woven for me.” 

TI\e poor girl delightedly sat down beside Glaucus. She 
drew from her girdle a ball of the many-colored threads, or 
rather slender ribbons, used in the weaving of garlands, and 
which (for it was her professional occupation) she carried 
constantly with her, and began quickly and gracefully to com- 
mence her task. Upon her young cheeks the tears were al- 
ready dried, a faint but happy smile played round her lips ; — 
child-like, indeed, she was sensible only of the joy of the pres- 
ent hour : she was reconciled to Glaucus : he had forgiven her 
— she was beside him — he played caressingly with her silken 
ba-.r — his breath fanned her cheek, — lone, the cruel lone, was 
rot by — none other demanded, divided, his care. Yes, she 
yvits happy and forgetful ; it was one of the few moments in 
lier brief and troubled life that it was sweet to treasure, to re- 
4 *ail. As the butterfly, allured by the winter sun, basks for a 
litcle while in the sudden light, ere yet the wind awakes and 
ifhe frost comes on, which shall blast it before the eve, — she 
)fested beneath a beam, which, by contrast with the wonted 
;$hi!is, was not chilling ; and the instinct which should have 
wained her of its briefness, bade her only gladden in its smile. 

“ Thou hast beautiful locks,” said Glaucus. “ They were 
Oix:^, I ween well, a mother’s delight.” 

Nydia sighed ; it would seem that she had not been born a 
ulave ; but she ever shunned the mention of her parentage, 
and, whether obscure or noble, certain it is that her birth was 
never known by her benefactors, nor by anyone in those dis- 
tant shores, even to the last. The child of sorrow and of mys- 
tery, she came and went as some bird that enters our chamber 


176 the last da YS of POMPEII. 

for a moment ; we see it flutter for a while before us, we knev! 
not whence it flew or to what region it escapes. 

Nydia sighed, and after a short pause, without answerinj 
the remark, said, — 

“ But do I weave too many roses in my wreath. Glaucus/' 
They tell me it is thy favorite flower.” 

“ And ever favored, my Nydia, be it by those who have the 
soul of poetry : it is the flower of love, of festivals ; it is also 
the flower we dedicate to silence and to death ; it blooms on 
our brows in life while life be worth the having ; it is scattered 
above our sepulchre when we are no more.” 

“ Ah ! would,” said Nydia, “ instead of this perishable 
wreath, that I could take thy web from the hand of the Fates, 
and insert the roses there!'' 

“ Pretty one 1 thy wish is worthy of a voice, so attuned to 
song ; it is uttered in the spirit of song ; and, whatever my 
doom, I thank thee.” 

“ Whatever thy doom ! is it not already destined to all 
things bright and fair } My wish was vain. The Fates will 
be as Lender to thee as I should.” 

^ It might not be so, Nydia, were it not for love. While 
youth lasts, I may forget my country for a while. But what 
Athenian, in his graver manhood, can think of Athens as she 
was, and be contented that he is happy while she is fallen ?— 
fallen, and forever ! ” 

“ And why forever ? ” 

“ As ashes cannot be rekindled — as love once dead never 
can revive, so freedom departed from a people is never re^ 
gained. But talk we not of these matters unsuited to thee.” 

“To me, oh ! thou errest. I, too, have my sighs for Greece ; 
my cradle was rocked at the feet of Olympus ; the gods have 
left the mountain, but their traces may be seen — seen in the 
hearts of their worshippers, seen in the beauty of their clime : 
they tell me it is beautiful, and / have felt its airs, to which 
even these are harsh — its sun, to which these skies are chilL 
Oh ! talk to me of Greece ! Poor fool that I am, I can com- 
prehend thee ! and methinks, had I yet lingered on those shores, 
had I been a Grecian maid whose happy fate it was to love and 
to be loved, I myself could have armed my lover for anothei 
Marathon, a new Plataee. Yes, the hand that now weaves ths 
roses should have woven thee the olive crown ! ” 

“ If such a day could come ! ” said Glaucus, catching tha 
enthusiasm of the blind Thessalian, and half-rising. — “ But no I 
the sun has set, and the night only bids us be forgetful, — and 
in forgetfulness be gay ; — weave still the roses I ” 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 1 7 7 

But it was with a melancholy tone of forced gayety that the 
Athenian uttered the last words : and sinking into a gloomy 
reverie, he was only wakened from it, a few minutes afterwards, 
by the voice of Nydia, as she sang in a low tone the following 
words, which he had once taught her. 

THE APOLOGY FOR PLEASURE. 


I. 

Who will assume the bays 
That the hero wore ? 

Wreaths on the Tomb of Days 
Gone evermore ! 

Who .shall disturb the brave, 

Or one leaf on their holy grave ? 

The laurel is vow’d to them, 

Leave the bay on its sacred stem 1 
But this, the rose, the fading rose. 

Alike for slave and freeman grows I 

II. 

If memory sit beside the dead 
With tombs her only treasure; 

If hope is lost, and Freedom fled. 

The more exxuse for Pleasure. 

Come, weave the wreath, the roses weave, 
The rose at least is ours ; 

To feeble hearts our fathers leave, 

In pitying scorn, the flowers ! 

III. 

On the summit, worn and hoary. 

Of Poyle’s solemn hill. 

The tramp of the brave is still I 
And still m the saddening Mart, 

The pulse of that mighty heart, 

Whose very Ijlood was glory f 
(^laucopis forsaken her own, 

The angry gods forget us ; 

But yet, the blue streams along, 

Walk the feel of the silvery Song ; 

And the night-lnrd wakes the noon 
And the bees in the blushing moon 
Haunt the heart of the old Hymettual 
We are fallen, l)ut not forlorn. 

Tf something is left to cherish 
As 1.0 ve was the earliest born 
So love is the last to perish. 


TV. 

Wreathe then the roses, wreathe, 

The nKAUTiKi’i. still is ours. 

While the stream shall flow, and the sky sh^' 
The itKAirriFui, still is ours I 


THE LAST DA YS OL' POMPEII 


17S 

Whatever is fair, or .soft or bright, 

In the lap of day <>r the arms of nigdit, 
Whi.spers onr .soul 'if dreece — of (Irecce, 

And hu.shc.s our care with a voice of peace. 
Wreathe then tlie roses, wreathe 1 
'rhcy tell me of earlier hours; 

And I hear ti»e heart of my Country breathe 
From the lips of the Stranger’s flowers.” 


CH APTER V. 


Nydia encounters Julia. — Interview of the heathen sister and converted 
brother. — An Athenian’.s notion of Christianity. 

“ \Vu.-\T ha))pine.ss to lone ! what b!i.s.s to be ever by the .side 
of G1 aliens, to Itear Ids voice ! — .And she too can see him ! ” 

Sucli was tile soliloquy of the ])liiidgirl, as she walked alone 
fbd at twilight to the house of her new mistress, whither Claticus 
had already preceded her. Suddenly she was interrupted in her 
fond thoughts by a female voice. 

“ Jdinci flower-girl, whither goes! thou ? 'Fhcre is no pan- 
nier under thine arm; hast thou .sold all thy flowers? ” 

The person thus accosting Nydia was a lady of a handsome, 
but a bold and unmaidenly, countenance; it was Julia, the 
daughter of Diomed. Her veil was Iialf raised as she sjroke ; 
she was accompanied by Diomed him.sc!f, and by a slave car- 
rying a lantern before them — the mercdiant and his daughter were 
returning home from a supper at one of their neighbor’s. 

“ Dost thou not rememlier my voice ? ” continued j ulia. “ I 
am the daughter of Diomed the wealthy.” 

O J ^ 

“ Ah ! forgive me ; yes, I recall tlie tones of your voice. No, 
noble Julia, I have no flowers to sell.” 

“ 1 heard that thou wert purchased by the beautiful Cxreok,’ 
Glaucus ; is that true, pretty slave ? ” asked Julia. 

‘‘ r serve the Neapolitan Tone,” replied Nydin, evasively, 

“ Ah ! and it is true, then ” 

“ Coma, come ! ” interrupted Diomed, with hi.s cloak up to 
his mouth, “ the night grows cold ; J cannot stay here while 
you })rate to that blind girl : come, let her follow you home, if’ 
you wi.sh to speak to her.” 

“ Do, child,” said Julia, with the air of one not accustomed 
to be refused ; “ I have much to ask of thee: come.” 

“ f cannot thi.s niglu, it grow.s hit.:',” answered Nydia. “I 
must be at home; I am not free, noble Julia.” 

“ What 1 the meek will rhide thee.? — Ay, I doubt not 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


179 

she is a second Thalestris. But come, then, to-morrow : do— 
remember I have been thy friend of old.” 

“ I will obey thy wishes,” answered Nydia : and Diomed 
again impatiently summoned his daughter ; she was obliged to 
proceed, with the main question she had desired to put to Nydia, 
unasked. 

Meanwhile we return to lone. The interval of time that 
had elapsed that day between the first and second visit of 
Glaucus had not been too gayly spent : she had received a 
visit from her brother. Since the night he had assisted in 
caving her from the Egyptian, she had not before seen him. 

Occupied with his own thoughts, — thoughts of so serious 
and intense a nature, — the young priest had thought little of 
his sister : in truth, men perhaps of that fervent order of mind 
which is ever aspiring above earth, are but little prone to the 
earthlier affections ; and it had been long since Apaecides had 
sought those soft and friendly interchanges of thought, those 
sweet confidences, which in his earlier youth had bound him 
to lone, and which are so natural to that endearing connection 
which existed beween them. 

lone, however, had not ceased to regret his estrangement : 
she attributed it, at present, to the engrossing duties of his 
severe fraternity. And often, amidst all her bright hopes, and 
her new attachment to her oetrothed — often, when she thought 
of her brother s brow prematurelv furrowed, his unsmiling lip, 
and bended frame, she sighed to think that the service of the 
gods could throw so deep a shadow over that earth which the 
gods created. 

But this ^ay when he visited her there was a strange calm* 
ness on his features, a more quiet and self-possessed expres- 
sion on his sunken eyes, than she had marked for years. This 
apparent improvement was but momentary — it was a false calm, 
which the least breeze could ruffle. 

“ May the gods bless thee, my brother ! ” said she, em- 
braciiig him. 

“ The gods ! Speak not thus vaguely ; perchance there is 
but one God ! ” 

“ My brother ! ” 

“ What if the sublime faith of the Nazarene bo true ? What 
if God be a monarch — One — Invisible — Alone ? What if these 
numerous, countless deities, whose altars fill the earth, be but 
evil demons, seeking to wean us from the true creed ? This 
may be the case, lone ! ” 

“ Alas ! can we believe it ? or if we believe, would it not be a 
melancholy faith?” answered the Neapolitan. “ What 1 al/ 


l8o the last da ys of fompeti, 

this beautiful world made only human ! — the mountain disen* 
chanted of its Oread — the waters of their Nymph — that beau* 
tiful prodigality of faith, which makes everything divine, con- 
secrating the meanest flowers, bearing celestial whispers in the 
faintest breeze — wouldst thou deny this, and make the earth 
mere dust and clay ? No, Apaecides ; all that is brightest in 
our hearts is that very credulity which peoples the universe 
with gods.” 

lone answered as a believer in the poesy of the old myth- 
ology would answer. We may judge by that reply how obsti- 
nate and hard the contest which Christianity had to endure 
among the heathens. The Graceful Superstition was never si- 
lent ; every, the most household, action of their lives was en- 
twined with it, — it was a portion of life itself, as the flowers 
are a part of the thyrsus. At every incident they recurred to a 
god, every cup of wine was prefaced by a libation ; the very 
garlands on their thresholds were dedicated to some divinity ; 
their ancestors themselves, made holy, presided as Lares over 
their hearth and hall. So abundant was belief with them, that 
in their own climes, at this hour, idolatry has never thoroughly 
been outrooted : it changes but its objects of worship ; it ap- 
peals to innumerable saints where once it resorted to divini- 
ties ; and it pours its crowds, in listening reverence, to oracles 
at the shrines of St. Januarius or St. Stephen, instead of to 
those of Isis or Apollo. 

But these superstitions were not to the early Christians the 
object of contempt so much as of horror. They did not be- 
lieve, with the quiet skepticism of the heathen philosopher, 
that the gods were inventions of the priests ; nor even, with 
the vulgar, that according to the dim light of history, they had 
been mortals like themselves. They imagined the heathen 
divinities to be evil spirits — they transplanted to Italy and to 
Greece the gloomy demons of India and the East ; and in Jupi- 
ter or in Mars they shuddered at the representative of Moloch 
or of Satan.* 

Apaecides had not yet adopted formally the Christian faith, 
but he was already on the brink of it. He already participated 
the doctrines of Olinthus — he already imagined that the lively 

* In Pompeii, a rough sketch of Pluto delineates that fearful deity in the 
shape we at present ascribe to the devil, and decorates him with the parapher- 
nalia of horns and a tail. But, in all probability, it was from the mysterious 
Pan, the haunter of solitary places, the inspirer of vague and soul-shaking 
terrors, that we took the vulgar notion of the outward likeness of the fiend; 
it corresponds exactly to the cloren-footed Satan. And in the lewd and 
profligate rites of Pan, Christians might well imagine thp** traced the decep- 
tions of the deviL 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. ig| 

Imaginations of the heathen were the suggestions of the arch* 
enemy of mankind. The innocent and natural answer of Ion« 
made him shudder. ’ He hastened to reply vehemently, and 
yet so confusedly, that lone feared for his reason more than 
she dreaded his violence. 

“ Ah, my brother I ” said she, “ these hard duties of thine 
have shattered thy very sense. Come to me, Apaecides, my 
brother, my own brother ; give me thy hand, let me wipe the 
dew from thy brow ; — chide me not now, I understand thee not ; 
think only that lone could not offend thee I ” 

“ lone,” said Apaecides, drawing her towards him, and re- 
garding her tenderly, ‘‘ can I think that this beautiful form, 
this kind heart, may be destined to an eternity of torment ? ” 

“ Dii meliora ! the gods forbid ! ” said lone, in the custom- 
ary form of words by which her contemporaries thought an 
omen might be averted. 

The words, and still more the superstition they implied, 
wounded the ear of Apaecides. He rose, muttering to himself, 
turned from the chamber, then stopping half-way, gazed 
wistfully on lone, and extended his arms. 

lone flew to them in joy ; he kissed her earnestly and then 
he said, — 

“ Farewell, my sister ! when we next meet, thou mayest be 
to me as nothing ; take thou, then, this embrace — ^full yet of 
all the tender reminiscences of childhood, when faith and 
hope, creeds, customs, interests, objects, were the same to us. 
Now, the tie is to be broken ! ” 

With these strange words he left the house. 

The great and severest trial of the primitive Christians was 
indeed this ; their conversion separated them from their dearest 
bonds. They could not associate with beings whose commonest 
actions, whose commonest forms of speech, were impregnated 
with idolatry. They shuddered at the blessing of love; to 
their ears it was uttered in a demon’s name. This, their mis- 
fortune, was their strength ; if it divided them from the rest 
of the world, it was to unite them proportionally to each 
other. 

They were men of iron who wrought forth the Word of Cod, 
and verily the bonds that bound them were of iron also ! 

Glaucus found lone in tears ; he had already assumed the 
sweet privilege to console. He drew from her a recital of her 
interview v/ith her brother ; but in her confused account of 
language, itself so confused to one not prepared for it, he was 
equally at a loss with lone to conceive the intenticns or the 
meaning of Apaecides. 


i 82 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


** Hast thou ever heard much,” asked she, “ of this ne\i 
sect of the Nazarenes, of which my brother spoke ? ” 

“ I have often heard enough of the votaries,” returned 
Glaucus, “ but of their exact tenets know I nought, save that 
in their doctrine there seemeth something preternaturally chill- 
ing and morose. They live apart from their kind ; they affect 
to be shocked even at our simple uses of garlands ; they have 
no sympathies with the cheerful amusements of life ; they utter 
awful threats of the coming destruction of the world ; they ap- 
pear, in one word, to have brought their unsmiling and gloomy 
creed out of the cave of Trophonius. Yet,” continued Glaucus, 
after a slight pause, “ they have not wanted men of great power 
and genius, nor converts, even among the Areopagites of Ath- 
ens. Well do I remember to have heard my father speak of one 
strange guest at Athens, many years ago ; methinks his name 
was Paul. My father was amongst a mip^hty crowd that 
gathered on one of our immemorial hills to hear this sage of 
the East expound : through the wide throng there rang not a 
single murmur ! — the jest and the roar, with which our native 
orators are received, were hushed for him ; — and when on the 
loftiest summit of that hill, raised above the breathless crowd 
below, stood this mysterious visitor, his mien and his counte- 
nance r'.wed every heart, even before a sound left his lips. He 
was r. man, I have heard my father say, of no tall stature, but 
oi noble and impressive mien ; his robes were dark and ample; 
the declining sun, for it was evening, shone aslant upon his 
form as it rose aloft, motionless and commanding ; his counte- 
nance was much worn and marked, as of one who had braved 
alike misfortune and the sternest vicissitudes of many climes ; 
but hie eyes were bright with an almost unearthly fire ; and 
when he raised his arm to speak, it was with the majesty of a 
man into whom the Spirit of a God hath rushed ! 

“ ‘ Men of Athens ! ’ he is reported to have said, ‘ I find 
amongst y3 an altar with this inscription — To the unknown 
God. Ye worship in ignorance the same Deity 1 serve. To 
you unknown till now, to you be it now revealed.’ 

“ Then declared that solemn man how this great Maker of 
all things, who had appointed unto man his several tribes and 
his various homes — the Lord — earth and the universal heaven, 
dwelt not in temples made with hands; that His presence. His 
spirit, were in the air we breathed : — our life and our being were 
with Him. ‘ Think you,’ he cried, ‘ that the Invisible is like 
your statues of gold and marble ? Think you that He needeth 
sacrifice from you . He who made heaven and earth ? ’ Then 
spake he of fearful and coming times, of the end of the world 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


183 

of a second rising of the dead, whereof an assurance had been 
given to man in the resurrection of the mighty Being whose 
religion he came to preach. 

“ When he thus spoke, the long-pent murmur went forth 
and the philosophers, that were mingled with the people, mut- 
tered their sage contempt ; there might you have seen the chill- 
ing frown of the Stoic, and the Cynic’s sneer ; * — and the Epi- 
curean, who believeth not even in our own Elysium, muttered 
£. pleasant jest, and swept laughing through the crowd : but 
the deep heart of the people was touched and thrilled ; and 
they trembled, though they knew not why, for verily the 
stranger had the voice and majesty of a man to whom ‘ The 
unknown God ’ had committed the preaching of his faith.” 

lone listened with rapt attention, and the serious and earn- 
est manner of the narrator betrayed the impression that he 
himself had received from one who had been amongst the au- 
dience that on the hill of the heathen Mars had heard the first 
tidings of the word of Christ 1 


CHAPTER VI. 

The porter — the girl — and the gladiator. 

The door of Diomed’s house stood ope and Medon, the 
old slave, sat at the bottem of the steps by which you ascended 
to the mansion. That luxurious mansion of the rich merchant 
of Pompeii is still to be seen just without the gates of the city, 
at the commencement of the Street of Tombs ; it was a gay 
neighborhood, despite the dead. On the opposite side, but at 
some yards nearer the gate, was a spacious hostelry, at which 
those brought by business or by pleasure to Pompeii often 
stopped to refresh themselves. In the space before the en- 
trance of the inn now stood wagons, and carts, and chariots, 
some just arrived, some just quitting, in all the bustle of an 
animated and popular resort of public entertainment. Before 
the door, some farmers, seated on a bench by a small circular 
table, were talking over their morning cups, on the affairs of 
their calling. On the side of the door itself was painted gaylj 

♦ « The haughty C3miic scowl’d his grovelling hate, 

And the soft Graden’s rose-encircled child 
Smiled unbelief, and shudder’d as he smiled.” 

Praed: Prize Poem, ” AthensI* 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPETL 


184 

and freshly the eternal sign of the checkers.* By the roof of 
the inn stretched a terrace, on which some females, wives o£ 
the farmers above mentioned, were, some seated, some leaning 
over the railing, and conversing with their friends below. In a 
deep recess, at a little distance, was a covered seat, in which 
some two or three poorer travellers were resting themselves, 
and shaking the dust from their garments. On the other side 
stretched a wide space, originally the burial-ground- of a more 
ancient race than the present denizens of Pompeii, and now 
converted into the Ustrinum, or place for the burning of the 
dead. Above this rose the terraces of a gay villa, half hid by 
trees. The tombs themselves, with their graceful and varied 
shapes, the flowers and the foliage that surrounded them made 
no melancholy feature in the prospect. Hard by the gate of 
the city, in a small niche, stood the still form of the well-dis 
ciplined Roman sentry, the sun shining brightly on his polished 
crest, and the lance on which he leaned. The gate itself was 
divided into three arches, the centre one for vehicles, the 
others for the foot-passengers; and on either side rose the 
massive walls which girt the city, composed, patched, repaired 
at a thousand different epochs, according as war, time, or the 
earthquake, had shattered that vain protection. At frequent 
intervab rose square towers, whose summits broke in pic- 
turesque rudeness the regular line of the wall, and contrasted 
well with the modem buildings gleaming vrhitely b}^ 

The curving road, which in that direction leads from Pom- 
peii to Herculaneum, wound out of sight amidst hanging vines, 
above which frowned the sullen majesty of Vesuvius. 

“ Hast thou heard the news, old Medon ? ” said a young 
w'oman, with a pitcher in her hand, as she paused by Diomed’s 
door to gossip a moment with the slave, ere she repaired to the 
neighboring inn to fill the vessel, and coquet with the travellers. 

“ The news I what news ? ” said the slave, raising his eyes 
moodily from the ground. 

“Why, ther^ passed through the gate this morning, no 
doubt ere thou wert well awake, such a visitor to Pompeii ! ” 

“ Ay,’* said the slave, indifferently. 

“ Yes, a pr jsent from the noble Pomponianus.” 

A present \ I thought thou saidst a visitor ! ” 

“ It is both visitor and present. Know, O dull and stupid; 
that it is a most beautiful young tiger, for our approaching 
games in the amphitheatre. Herx you that, Medon ? Oh, 
what pleasure ! I declare I shall not sleep a wink till I see it' 
they say it has such a roar ? ” 

* There is another inn within the walls similarly adornef^ 


THE LAST DA KJ OF POMPEII. 


iSs 

** Poor fool ! said Medon, sadly and cynically. 

Fool me no fool, old churl ! It is a pretty thing, a tiger, 
especially if we could but find somebody for him to eat. V/e 
have now a lion and a tiger : only consider that, Medon ! and, 
for want of two good criminals perhaps we shall be forced to 
see them eat each other. By the bye, your son is a gladiator, 
a handsome man and a strong ; can you not persuade him to 
fight the tiger ? Do now, you would oblige me mightily ; nay, 
you would be a benefactor to the whole town.” 

“ Vah ! vah ! ” said the slave, with great asperity; “think 
of thine own danger ere thou ^hus pratest of my poor boy’s 
death.” 

“ My own danger ! ” said the girl, frightened and looking 
hastily round — “ Avert the omen ! let thy words fall on thine 
own head ! ” And the girl as she spoke touched a talisman 
suspended round her neck. “ ‘ Thine own danger ! ’ what 
danger threatens me ? ” 

“ Had the earthquake but a few nights since no warning ? ” 
said Medon. “ Has it not a voice ? Did it not say to us all, 
‘ Prepare for death ; the end of all things is at hand ? ’ ” 

“ Bah, stuff ! ” said the young woman, settling the folds of 
her tunic. “ Now thou talkest as they say the Nazarenes talk 
— methinks thou art one of them. Well, I can prate with thee, 
gray croaker, no more : thou growest worse and worse — Fa/e ) 
O Hercules, send us a man for the lion — and another for the 
tiger i 

“ Ho ! ho ! for the merry, merry show, 

With a forest of faces in every row ! 

Lo, the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmaena, 

Sweep, side by side, o’er the hushed arena ; 

Talk while you may — you will hold your breath 
When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death. 

Tramp, tramp, how gayly they go 1 
Ho 1 ho ! for the merry, merry show 1 ” 

Chanting in a silver and clear voice this feminine ditty, and 
holding up her tunic from the dusty road, the young woman 
stepped lightly across to the crowded hostelry. 

“ My poor son ! ” said the slave, half aloud, “ is it for things 
like this thou art to be butchered ? Oh ! faith of Christ, I 
could worship thee in all sincerity, were it but for the horror 
which thou inspirest for these bloody lists.” 

The old man’s head sank dejectedly on his breast. He re- 
mained silent and absorbed, but every now and then with the 
corner of his sleeve he wiped his eyes. His heart was with his 
son ; he did not see the figure that now approached from the 


j86 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


gate witli a quick step, and a somewhat fierce and reckless 
gait and carriage. He did not lift his eyes till the figure paused 
opposite the place where he sat, and with a soft voice addressed 
him by the name of — 

“ Father 1 ” 

“ My boy ! my Lydon ! is it indeed thou > said the old man 
joyfully. “ Ah, thou wert present to my thoughts.” 

“ I am glad to hear it, my father,” said the gladiator, re- 
spectfully touching the knees and beard of the slave ; “ and 
soon may I be always present with thee, not in thought only.” 

“ Yes, my son — but not in this world,” replied the slave 
mournfully. 

“ Talk not thus, O my sire ! look cheerfully, for I feel so-— 
I am sure that I shall win the day ; and then, the gold I gain 
buys thy freedom. Oh ! my father, it was but a few days since 
that I was taunted, by one, too, whom I would gladly have 
undeceived, for he is more generous than the rest of his equals. 
He is not Roman — he is of Athens — by him I was taunted 
with the lust of gain — when I demanded what sum was the 
prize of victory. Alas, he little knew the soul of Lydon 1 ” 

“ My boy ! my boy ! ” said the old slave, as, slowly as- 
cending the steps, he conducted his son to his own little cham- 
ber, communicating with the entrance hall (which in this villa 
was the peristyle, not the atrium) : — you may see it now : it is 
the third door to the right on entering. (The first door conducts 
to the staircase ; the second is but a false recess, in which there 
stood a statue of bronze.) “ Generous, affectionate, pious as 
are thy motives,” said Medon, when they were thus secured 
from observation, “ thy deed itself is guilt : thou art to risk thy 
blood for thy father’s freedom — that might be forgiven ; but 
the prize of victory is the blood of another. Oh, that i.- a deadly 
sin ; no object can purify it. Forbear ! forbear ! rather would 
I be a slave forever than purchase liberty on such terms I ” 

“ Hush, my father ! ” replied Lydon, somewhat impatiently ; 
thou hast picked up in this new creed of thine, of which I 
pray thee not to speak to me, for the gods that give me strength 
denied me wisdom, and I understand not one word of what 
thou often preachest to me, — thou hast picked up, I say, in this 
new creed, some singular fantasies of right and wrong. Pardon 
me, if I offend thee : but reflect ! Against whom shall I con 
tend ^ Oh ! couldst thou know those wretches with whom, fof 
thy sake, I assort, thou wouldst think I purified earth by re- 
moving one of them. Beasts, whose very lips drop blood ^ 
things, all savage, unprincipled ’n their very courage; fero* 
cious, heartless, senseless : no tie of life can bind them : they 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


187 

know not fear, it is true — but neither know they gratitude, not 
charity, nor love ; they are made but for their own career, to 
slaughter without pity, to die without dread ! Can thy gods, 
whosoever they be, look with wrath on a conflict with such as 
these, and in such a cause ? Oh, my father, wherever the 
powers above gaze down on earth, they behold no duty so 
sacred, so sanctifying, as the sacrifice offered to an aged parent 
by the piety of a grateful son ! ” 

The poor old slave, himself deprived of the lights of knowl- 
edge, and only late a convert to the Christian faith, knew not 
with what arguments to enlighten an ignorance at once so 
dark, and yet so beautiful in its error. His first impulse was 
to throw himself on his son’s breast — his next to start away — 
to wring his hands ; and in the attempt to reprove, his broken 
voice lost Itself in weeping. 

“ And if,” resumed Lydon, — “ if thy Deity (methinks thou 
wilt own but one.?) be indeed that benevolent and pitying 
Power which thou assertest Him to be. He will know also that 
thy very faith in Him first confirmed me in that determination 
thou blamest.” 

“ How I what mean you ? ” said the slave. 

‘‘Why, thou knowest that I, sold in my childhood as a 
slave, was set free at Rome by the will of my master, whom I 
had been fortunate enough to please. I hastened to Pompeii 
to see thee — 1 found thee already aged and infirm, under the 
yoke of a capricious and pampered lord — thou hadst lately 
adopted this new faith, and its adoption made thy slavery 
doubly painful to thee : it took away all the softening charm of 
custom, which reconciles us so often to the worst. Didst thou 
not complain to me, that thou wert compelled to offices that 
were not odious to thee as a slave, but guilty as a Nazarene ? 
Didst thou not tell me that thy soul shook with remorse when 
thou wert compelled to place even a crumb of cake before the 
Lares that watch over yon impluvium ? that thy soul was torn 
by a perpetual struggle ? Didst thou not tell me, that even by 
pouring wine before the threshold, and calling on the name of 
some Grecian deity, thou didst fear thou wert incurring penal- 
ties worse than those of Tantalus, an eternity of tortures more 
terrible than those of the Tartarian fields.? Didst thou n^t tell 
me this .? I wondered, I could not comprehend : nor, by Her- 
cules ! can I now : but I was thy son, and my sole task was to 
compassionate and relieve. Could I hear thy groans, rould I 
witness thy mysterious horrors, thy constant anguish, and re* 
main inactive ! No ! by the immortal gods ! the thought struck 
me like light from Olympus I I had no money, but I had strength 


i88 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII, 


and youth — these were thy gifts — I could sell these in my turn 
for thee ! I learned the amount of thy ransom — I learned that 
the usual prize of a victorious gladiator would doubly pay it 
I became a gladiator — I linked myself with those accursed men, 
scorning, loathing, while I joined — I acquired their skill — • 
blessed be the lesson ! — it shall teach me to free my father ! ” 

“ Oh, that thou couldst hear Olinthus ! ” sighed the old 
man, more and more affected by the virtue of his son, but not 
less strongly convinced of the criminality of his purpose. 

“ I will hear the whole world talk, if thou wilt,” answered 
the glad’ator, gayly ; “but not till thou art a slave no more. 
Beneath thy own roof, my father, thou shalt puzzle this dull 
brain all day long, ay, and all night too, if it give thee pleasure. 
Oh, such a spot as I have chalked out for thee ! — it is one of 
the nine hundred and ninety-nine shops of old Julia Felix, in 
the sunny part of the city, where thou mayst bask before the 
door in the day — and I will sell the oil and the wine for thee, 
my father — and then, please Venus (or if it does not please 
her, since thou lovest not her name, it is all one to Lydon ;) — 
then I say, perhaps thou mayst have a daughter, too, to tend 
thy gray hairs, and hear shrill voices at thy knee, that shall call 
thee ‘ Lydon ’s father ! * Ah ! we shall be so happy — the prize 
can purchase all. Cheer thee ! cheer up, my sire ; — And now 
I must away — day wears — the lanista waits me. Come I thy 
blessing ! ” 

As Lydon thus spoke, he had already quitted the dark 
chamber of his father ; and speaking eagerly, though in a 
whispered tone, they now stood at the same place in which we 
introduced the porter at his post. 

“ O, bless thee 1 bless thee, my brave boy ! ” said Medon, 
fervently ; “ and may the great Power that reads all hearts see 
the nobleness of thine, and forgive its error ! ” 

The tall shape of the gladiator passed swiftly down the 
path ; the eyes of the slave followed its light but stately steps, 
till the last glimpse was gone : and then sinking once more on 
his seat, his eyes again fastened themselves on the ground. 
His form, mute and unmoving, as a thing of stone. His heart ! 
— who, in our happier age, can even imagine its struggles — its 
commotion ? 

“ May I enter ? ” said a sweet voice. “ Is thy mistress Julia 
within ? ” 

The slave mechanically motioned to the visitor to enter, but 
she who addressed him could not see the gesture — she repeated 
her question timidly, but in a louder voice. 

“ Have I not told thee ! ” said the slave, peevishly; “ enter.* 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 189 

“Thanks,” said the speaker, plaintively; and the slave, 
roused by the tone, looked up, and recognized the blind flower- 
girl. Sorrow can sympathize with affliction — he raised himself, 
and guided her steps to the head of the adjacent staircase (by 
which you descended to Julia’s apartment), where, summoning 
a female slave, he consigned to her the charge of the blind 
girl. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The dressing-room of a Pompeian beauty. — Important conversation between 
Julia and Nydia. 

The elegant Julia sat in her chamber, with her slaves around 
her ; — like the cubiculum which adjoined it, the room was 
small, but much larger than the usual apartments appropriated 
to sleep, which were so diminutive, that few who have not seen 
the bed-chambers, even in the gayest mansions, can form any 
notion of the petty pigeon-holes in which the citizens of Pom- 
peii evidently thought it desirable to pass the night. But, in 
fact, “ bed ” with the ancients was not that grave, serious, and 
important part of domestic mysteries which it is with us. The 
couch itself was more like a very narrow and small sofa, light 
enough to be transported easily, and by the occupant himself, * 
from place to place ; and it was, no doubt, constantly shifted 
from chamber to chamber, according to the caprices of the 
inmate, or the changes of the season ; for that side of the house 
which was crowded in one month, might, perhaps, be carefully 
avoided in the next. There was also among the Italians of 
that period a singular and fastidious apprehension of too much 
daylight ; their darkened chambers, which first appear to us the 
result of a negligent architecture, were the effect of the most 
elaborate study. In their porticoes and gardens, they courted 
'lie sun whenever it so pleased their luxurious tastes. In the 
interior of their houses they sought rather the coolness and the 
shade. 

Julia’s apartment at that season was in the lower part of 
rhe house, immediately beneath the state-rooms above, and 
looking upon the garden, with which it was on a level. The 
wide door, which was glazed, alone admitted the morning rays : 
yet her eye, accustomed to a certain darkness, was sufficiently 
acute to perceive exactly what colors were the most becoming 

♦ “ Take up thy bed and walk ” was (as Si*- W. Gell somewhere observejrf 
no metaphorical expression. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


190 

— wKat shade of the delicate rouge gave the brightest beam tQ 
her dark glance, and the most youthful freshness to her cheeks 

On the table, before which she sat, was a small and circu- 
lar mirror of the most polished steel : round which, in precise 
order, were ranged the cosmetics and the unguents — the per- 
fumes and the paints — the jewels and the combs — the ribbons 
and the gold pins, which were destined to add to the natural 
attractions of beauty the assistance of art and the capricious 
allurements of fashion. Through the dimness of the room 
glowed brightly the vivid and various colorings of the wall, in 
all the dazzling frescoes of Pompeian taste. Befoie the dress- 
ing-table, and under the feet of Julia, was spread a carpet, 
woven from the looms of the East. Near at hand, on another 
table, was a silver basin and ewer , an extinguished lamp, of 
most exquisite workmanship, in which the artist had represented 
a Cupid reposing under the spreading branches of a myrtle- 
tree ; and a small roll of papyrus, containing the softest elegies 
of Tibullus. Before the door, which communicated with the 
cubiculum, hung a curtain richly embroidered with gold flowers. 
Such was the dressing-room of a beauty eighteen centuries 
ago. 

The fair Julia leaned indolently back on her seat, while the 
©matrix (/. e. hair-dresser) slowly piled, one above the other, 
a mass of small curls : dexterously weaving the false with the 
true, and carrying the whole fabric to a height that seemed to 
place the head rather at the centre than the summit of the 
human form. 

Her tunic, of a deep amber, which well set off her darb hair 
and somewhat embrowned complexion, swept in ample folds 
to her feet, which were cased in slippers, fastened round the 
slender ankle by white thongs; while a profusion of pearls, 
were embroidered in the slipper itself, which was of purple, 
and turned slightly upward, as do the Turkish slippers at this 
day. An old slave, skilled iDy long experiei ce in all the arcana 
of the toilet, stood beside the hair-dresser, with the broad and 
studded girdle of her mistress over her arm, and giving from 
time to time (mingled with judicious flattery to the lady her- 
self), instructions to the mason of the ascending pile. 

“ Put that pin rather more to the right — lower — stupid one I 
Do you not observe how even those beautiful eyebrows are r 
— One would think you were dressing Corinna, whose face is 
all of one side. Now put in the flowers — what, fool ! — not that 
dull pink — you are not suiting colors to the dim cheek ol 
Chloris : it must be the brightest flowers that can alone suit thi 
cheek of the young Julia.'* 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


191 

** Gently ! ” said the lady, stamping her small foot violently : 
•you pull roy hair as if you were plucking up a weed ! ” 

“ Dull thing ! ” continued the directress of the ceremony. 
** Do you not know how delicate is your mistress ? — you are not 
dressing the coarse horsehair of the widow Fulvia. Now, then, 
the ribbon — that’s right. Fair Julia, look in the mirror ; sanv 
you ever anything so lovely as yourself "i ” 

When, after innumerable comments, difficulties and delays, 
the intricate tower was at length completed, the next prepara- 
tion was that of giving to the eyes the soft languish, produced 
by a dark powder applied to the lids and brows ; a small patch 
cut in the form of a crescent, skilfully placed by the rosy lips, 
attracted attention to their dimples, and to the tee’th, to which 
already every art had been applied in order to heighten the 
dazzle of their natural whiteness. 

To another slave, hitherto idle, was now consigned the 
charge of arranging the jewels — the ear-ringr of pearl (two to 
each ear) — the massive bracelets of gold — the chain formed of 
rings of the same metal, to which a talisman cut in crystals was 
attached — the graceful buckle on the left shoulder, in which 
was set an exquisite cameo of Psyche — the gir:^.le of purple 
ribbon, richly wrought with threads of gold, and clasped by 
interlacing serpents — and lastly, the various ring? fitted to 
every joint of the white and slender fingers. The toilet was 
now arranged, according to the last mode of Ronie. The fair 
Julia regarded herself with a last gaze of complacent vanity, 
and reclining again upon her seat, she bade the youngest of 
her slaves, in a listless tone, read to her the enamored couplets 
of Tibullus This lecture was still proceeding, when a female 
slave admitted Nydia into the presence of the lady of the 
place. 

Salve, Julia!” said the flower-girl, arresting her steps 
within a few paces from the spot where Julia sat, and crossing 
her arms upon her breast. “ I have obeyed your commands.” 
I “You have done well, flower-girl,” answered the lady. 
“ Approach — you may take a seat.” 

One of the slaves placed a stool by Julia, and Nydia seated 
herself. 

Julia looked hard at the Thessalian for some moments in 
rather an embarrassed silence. She then motioned her attend- 
ants to withdraw, and to close the door. When they were 
alone, she said, looking mechanically from Nydia, and l:orget 
£ul that she was with one who could not observe her couute' 
nance, — 

** You serve tb^ Neapolitan, lone ? ” 


192 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII 


“ I am with her at present,’’ answered Nydia. 

“ Is she as handsome as they say ? ” 

“ I know not,” replied Nydia. “ How can / judge ? ” 

Ah ! I should have remembered. But thou hast ears, if 
not eyes. Do thy fellow-slaves tell thee she is handsome ? 
Slaves talking with one another forget to flatter even their 
mistress.” 

“ They tell me that she is beautiful ? ” 

“ Hem 1 — say they that she is tall ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Why, so am I. — Dark-haired ? ” 

“ I have heard so.” 

“ So am I. And doth Glaucus visit her much ? ” 

“ Daily,” returned Nydia, with a half-suppressed sigh. 

Daily, indeed ! Does he find her handsome } ” 

** I should think so, since they are so soon to be wedded.” 
“ Wedded ! ” cried Julia, turning pale even through the 
false roses on her cheek, and starting from her couch. Nydia 
did not, of course, perceive the emotion she had caused. Julia 
remained a long time silent ; but her heaving breast and flash- 
ing eyes would have betrayed, to one who cou/d have seen, the 
wound her vanity sustained. 

“ They tell me thou art a Thessalian,” said she, at last break- 
ing silence. 

“ And truly ! ” 

** Thessaly is the land of magic and of witches, of talismans 
and of love-philtres,” said Julia. 

“ It has ever been celebrated for its sorcerers,” returned 
Nydia, timidly. 

“ Knowest thou, then, blind Thessalian, of any love- 
charms ? ” 

“ I ! ” said the flower-girl coloring ; *‘ // how should I ? No, 
assuredly not ! ” 

“ The worse for thee ; I could have given thee gold enough 
to have purchased thy freedom hadst thou been more wise.” 

“ But what,” asked Nydia, “ can induce the beautiful and 
wealthy Julia to ask that question of her servant ? Has she not 
money, and youth, and loveliness ? Are fLey not love-charms 
enough to dispense with magic ? ” 

“To all but one person in the world,” answered Julia, 

haughtily : “ but methinks thy blindness is infectious • and 

But no matter.” 

“ And that one person ? ” said Nydia, eagerly. 

“Is not Glaucus,” replied Julia, with the customai;v deceit 
of her sex. “ Glaucus — no I ” 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


191 

Nydia drew her breath more freely, and after a short pause 
Juha recommenced. 

“ But talking of Glaucus, and his attachment to this Nea- 
pojStan, reminded me of the influence of love-spells, which, for 
aught I know or care, she may have exercised upon him. Blind 
girl, I love, and — shall Julia live to say it ? — am loved not in 
return! This humbles — nay, not humbles — but it stings my 
pride. I would see this ingrate at my feet — not in order that I 
might raise, but that I might spurn him. When they told me 
thou wert Thessalian, I imagined thy young mind might have 
learned the dark secrets of thy clime.” 

Alas I no,” murmured Nydia ; “ would it had I ” 

“ Thanks, at least, for that kindly wish,” said Julia, uncon- 
scious of what was passing in the breast of the flower-girl. 
But tell me, — thou hearest the gossip of slaves, always prone 
to these dim beliefs; always ready to apply to sorcery for 
their own low loves, — hast thou ever heard of any Eastern magi- 
cian in this city, who possesses the art of which thou art igno* 
rant ? No vain chiromancer, no juggler of the market-place, but 
some more potent and mighty magician of India or oi 
Egypt ? ” 

“ Of Egypt ? — yes I ” said Nydia, shuddering. “ What Pom- 
peian has not heard of Arbaces ? ” 

“ Arbaces! true,” replied Julia, grasping at the recollection. 
They say he is a man above all the petty and false impostures 
of dull pretenders, — that he is versed in the learning of the 
stars, and the secrets of the ancient Nox ; why not in the mys- 
teries of love ? ” 

“ If there be one magician living whose art is above that of 
others, it is that diead man,” answered Nydia ; and she felt her 
talisman while she spoke. 

“ He is too wealthy to divine for money ? ” continued Julia, 
sneeringly. “ Can I not visit him ? ” 

“It is an evil mansion for the young and beautiful,” replied 
Nydia. “ I have heard, too, that he languishes in ” 

“An evil mansion ! ” said Julia, catching only the first sen- 
tence. “ Why so ? ” 

“ The orgies of his midnight leisure are impure and polluted 
— at least, sc says rumor.” 

“ By Ceres, by Pan, and by Cybele ! thou dost but provoke 
my curiosity, instead of exciting my fears,” returned the way- 
ward and pampered Pompeian. “ I will seek and question him 
of nis lore. If to these orgies love be admitted— why, the mor# 
likely that he knows its secrets ! ’ 

Nydia did not answer. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPE/J, 


194 

** I will seek him this very day,” resumed Julia ; “ nay, why 
not this very hour ? ” 

“ At daylight, and in his present state, thou hast assuredly 
the less to fear,” answered Nydia, yielding to her own sudden 
and secret wish to learn if the dark Egyptian were indeed pos- 
sessed of those spells to rivet and attract love, of which the 
Thessalian had so often heard. 

“ And who dare insult the rich daughter of Diomed ? ” said 
Julia, haughtily. “ I will go.” 

“May I visit thee afterwards to learn the result?” asked 
Nydia, anxiously. 

“ Kiss me for thy interest in Julia’s honor,” answered the 
lady. “ Yes, assuredly. This eve we sup abroad — come hither 
at the same hour to-morrow, and thou shalt know all : I may 
have to employ thee too ; but enough for the present. Stay, 
take this bracelet for the new thought thou hast inspired me 
with ; remember, if thou servest Julia, she is grateful and she 
h generous.” 

“ I cannot take thy present,” said Nydia, putting aside the 
bracelet ; “ but young as I am, I can sympathize unbought with 
those who love — and love in vain.” 

“ Sayest thou so ! ” returned Julia. “ Thou speakest like a 
free woman — and thou shalt yet be free — ^farewell I ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Julia seeks Arbaces. — The result of that interview. 

Arbaces was seated in a chamber, which opened on a kind 
of balcony or portico that fronted his garden. His cheek was 
pale and worn with the sufferings he had endured, but his iron 
frame had already recovered from the severest effects of that 
accident which had frustrated his fell designs in the moment of 
victory. The air that came fragrantly to his brow revived his 
languid senses, and the blood circulated more freely than it 
had done for days through his shrunken veins. 

“ So, then,” thought he, “ the storm of fate has broken and 
blown over, — the evil which my lore predicted, threatening life 
itself, has chanced — and yet I live ! It came as the stars fore- 
told ; and now the long, bright, and prosperous career which 
was to succeed that evil, if I survived it, smiles beyond : I have 
passed — I have subdued the latest danger of my destiny. Now 
1 have but to lay out the gardens of my future fate — unterrified 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


I9S 

and secure. First, then, of all my pleasures, even before that of 
love, shall come revenge ! This boy Greek — who has crossed 
my passion — thwarted my designs — baffled me even when the 
blade was about to drink his accursed blood — shall not a 
second time escape me ! But for the method of n y ven- 
geance ? Of that let me ponder well I Oh ! Atb, if thou art 
indeed a goddess, fill me with thy direst inspiration 1 ” The 
Egyptian sank into an intent reverie, which did not seem to 
present to him any clear or satisfactory suggeswons. He 
changed his position restlessly, as he revolved scheme after 
scheme, which no sooner occurred than it was dismissed: 
several times he struck his breast and groaned aloud, with the 
desire of vengeance, and a sense of his impotence to accom- 
plish it. While thus absorbed, a boy slave timidly entered the 
chamber. 

A female, evidently of rank, from her dress and tnat of the 
single slave who attended her, waited below and sought an 
audience with Arbaces. 

“ A female ! ” his heart beat quick. Is she young ? ” 

“ Her face is concealed by her veil ; but her form is slight, 
yet round as that of youth.’* 

“Admit her,” said the Egyptian; for a moment his vain 
heart dreamed the stranger might be lone. 

The first glance of the visitor now entering the apartment 
sufficed to undeceive so erring a fancy. True, she was about 
the same height as lone, and perhaps the same age — true, she 
was finely and richly formed — but where was that undulating 
and ineffable grace which accompanied every motion of the 
peerless Neapolitan — the chaste and decorous garb, so simple 
even in the care of its arrangement — the dignified, yet bashful 
step — the majesty of womanhood and its modesty ? 

“ Pardon me that I rise with pain,” said Arbaces, gazing 
on the stranger: “ I am still suffering from recent illness.” 

“ Do not disturb thyself, O great Egyptian ! ” re^^urned 
Julia, seeking to disguise the fear she already experienced be- 
neath the ready resort of flattery ; “ and forgive an unfo’-^mate 
female, who seeks consolation from thy wisdom.” 

“ Draw near, fair stranger,” said Arbaces ; “ and speak 
without apprehension or reserve.” 

Julia placed herself on a seat beside the Egyptian, and won- 
deringly gazed round an apartment whose elaborate and costly 
luxuries shamed even the ornate enrichment of her father’s 
mansion ; fearfully, too, she regarded the hieroglyphical in- 
scriotions on the walls — the faces of the mysterious images which 
everv comer gazed upon her — the triood at a little distance 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


196 

p— and, above all, the grave r.nd remarkable countenance 61 
Arbaces himself : a long white robe, like a veil, half covered his 
raven locks, and flowed to his feet ; his face was made even 
more impressive by its present paleness : and his dark and 
penetrating eyes seemed to pierce the shelter of her veil, and 
explore the secrets of her vain and unfeminine soul. 

“And what,” said his low, deep voice, “brings thee, 0 
maiden ! to the house of the Eastern stranger ? ” 

“ His fame,” replied Julia. 

“ In what } ” said he, with a strange and slight smile. 

“ Canst thou ask, O wise Arbaces ? Is not thy knowledge 
tile very gossip theme of Pompeii ? ” 

“ Some little lore have I, indeed, treasured up,” replied 
Arbaces ; “ but in what can such serious and sterile secrets 
benefit the ear of beauty ? ” 

“Alas ! ” said Julia, a little cheered by the accustomed ac* 
cents of adulation ; “ does not sorrow fly to wisdom for relief, 
and they who love unrequitedly, are not they the chosen vic» 
tims of grief ? ” 

“ Ha ! ” said Arbaces, “can unrequited love be the lot of so 
fair a form, whose modelled proportions are visible even be- 
neath the folds of thy graceful robe ? Deign, O maiden ! to 
lift thy veil, that I may see at least if the face correspond in 
Ibveliness with the form.” 

Not unwilling, perhaps, to exhibit her charms, and think- 
aig they were likely to interest the magician in her fate, Julia, 
after some slight hesitation, raised her veil, and revealed a 
beauty which, but for art, had been indeed attractive to the 
fixed gaze of the Egyptian. 

“ Thou comest to me for advice in unhappy love,” said he, 
“ well, turn that face on the ungrateful one : what other love 
charm can I give thee ? ” 

“ Oh, cease these courtesies ! ” said Julia ; “ it is a love- 
charm, indeed, that I would ask from thy skill ! ” 

“Fair stranger ! ” replied Arbaces, somewhat scornfully, 
‘*love-spe”s are not among the secrets I have wasted the mid- 
night oil to attain.” 

'‘Is it indeed so ? Then pardon me, great Arbaces, and 
farewell.” 

“Stay,” said Arbaces, who, despite his passion for lone, 
was not unmoved by the beauty of his visitor ; and had he been 
in the flush of a more assumed health, might have attempted 
to console the fair Julia by other means than those of super- 
natural wisdom, — 

** Stay ; although I confess that I have left the witchery ol 


Thii. LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


197 

philtres and potions to those whose trade is in such knowledge, 
yet am I myself not so dull to beauty but that in earlier youth 
I may have employed them in my own behalf. I may give 
thee advice, at least, if thou wilt be candid with me. Tell me 
then, first, art thou unmarried, as thy dress betokens ^ 

“ Yes,” said Julia. 

** And, being unblest with fortune, wouldst thou allure some 
wealthy suitor ? ” 

“ I am richer than he who disdains me.” 

Strange and more strange 1 And thou lovest him who 
loves not thee 1 ” 

“I know not if I love him,” answered Julia, haughtily: 
“ but I know that I would see myself triumph over a rival — I 
would see him who rejected me my suitor — I would see her 
whom he has preferred, in her turn despised.” 

“ A natural ambition and a womanly,” said the Egyptian, 
in a tone too grave for irony. “ Yet more, fair maiden : wilt 
thou confide to me the name of thy lover ? Can he be Pom- 
peian, and despise wealth, even if blind to beauty } ” 

He is of Athens,” answered Julia, looking down. 

“ Ha 1 ” cried the Egyptian, impetuously, as the blood 
rushed to his cheek ; “ there is but one Athenian, young and 
noble, in Pompeii. Can it be Glaucus of whom thou speak- 
est ! ” 

“ Ah ! betray me not — so indeed they call him.” 

The Egyptian sank back, gazing vacantly on the averted 
face of the merchant’s daughter, and muttering inly to him- 
self ; — this conference, with which he had hitherto only tri- 
fled, amusing himself with the credulity and vanity of his visi- 
tor — might it not minister to his revenge 1 

“ I see thou canst assist me not,” said Julia, offended by 
his continued silence ; “ guard at least my secret. Once more, 
farewell ! ” 

“ Maiden,” said the Egyptian, in an earnest and serious 
tone, “ thy suit hath touched me — I will minister to thy will 
Listen to me : I have not myself dabbled in these lesser mys- 
teries, but I know one who hath. At the base of Vesuvius, 
less than a league from the city, there dwells a powerful witch ; 
beneath the rank dews of the new moon, she has gathered the 
herbs which possess the virtue to chain Love in eternal fet- 
ters. Her art can bring thy lover to thy feet. Seek her, and 
mention to her the name of Arbaces ; she fears that name, and 
will give thee her most potent philtres.” 

“Alas!” answered Julia, “I know not the road to the 
home of her whom thou speakest of : the way, short though i| 


TJfE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


<98 

be, is long to traverse for a girl who leaves, unknown, 
house of her father. The country is entangled with wild 
rines, and dangerous with precipitous caverns. I dare not 
trust to mere strangers to guide me , the reputation of women 
of my rank is easily tarnished — and though I care not who 
knows that I love Glaucus, I would not have it imagined thai 
I obti-ined his love by a spell.” 

Vtoe I but three ’ays advanced in health,” said the 
Egyptian, rising and walking (as if to try his strength) across 
the chamber, but ith irregular and feeble steps, “ I myself 
would accompany thee. — Well, thou must wait.” 

“ But Glaucus is soon to wed that hated Neapolitan.” 

“ Wed ! ” 

“ Yes ; in the early part of next month.” 

“ So soon ! Art thou well advised of this ? ” 

“ From the lios of her own slave.” 

“ It shall not be ! ” said the Egyptian, impetuously. ** Fear 
nothing, Glaucus shall be thine. Yet how, when thou obtain- 
est it, canst thou administer to him this potion ? ” 

“ My father has invited him, and, I believe, the Neapolitan 
also to a banquet, on the day " llowing to-morrow : I shall then 
have the opportunity to adm aster it.” 

“ So be it ! ” said the Egyptian, with eyes flashing such fierce 
joy, that Julia’s gaze sank embling beneath them. “To-mor- 
row eve, then, orde thy litter : — thou hast one at thy command ? ** 

“ Surely — yes ” returned th- purse-proud Julia. 

“ Order th) litter — at two miles’ distance from the city is a 
house of entertainment, frequented by the wealthier Pompeians, 
from the excellence of its baths, and the beauty of its gardens. 
There canst thou pretend only to shape thy course — there, ill or 
dying, I will me thee by the statue of Silenus, in the copse 
that skirts the garde’ ; and I myself will guide thee to the witch. 
Let us wait till, wita the evening star, the goats of the herdsmen 
are gone to rest ; when the dark twilight conceals us, and none 
shall cross our steps. Go home, and fear not. By Hades, 
swears Arbaces, the sorcerer of Egypt, that lone shall never wed 
with Glaucus ! ” 

“ A.nd that Glaucus shall be mine ? ” added Julia, filling up 
the incompleted sentence. 

“Thou hast said it!” replied Arbaces; and Julia, half 
frightened at this unhallowed appointment, but urged on by 
jealousy and the pique of rivalship, even more than love, re- 
solved to fulfil it. 

Left alone, Arbaces burst forth, — 

“ Bright stars that never lie, ye already begin the executi«r 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


199 

of your promises — success in love, and victory over foes, for the 
rest of my smooth existence. In the very hour when my mind 
could devise no clue to the goal of vengeance, 'iiave ye sent this 
fair fool for my guide ? ’* He paused in deep thought. “ Yes,'^ 
said he again, but in a calmer voice ; “ I could not myself have 
given to her the poison, that shall be indeed a philtre ! — his 
death might be thus tracked to my door. But the witch — ay, 
there is the fit, the natural agent of my designs ! ” 

He summoned one of his slaves, uadehim hasten to track 
the steps of Julia, and acquaint himself with her name and con- 
dition. This done, he stepped forth into the portico. The 
skies were serene and clear ; but he, deeply read in the signs 
of tlieir various changes, beheld in one mass of cloud, far on 
the horizon, which the wind began slowly to agitate, that a 
storm was brooding above. 

“ It is like my vengeance,” said he, as he gazed ; “ the sky 
is clear, but the cloud moves on.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

A storm In the south. — The witch’s cavern. 

It was when the heats of noon died gradually away from 
the earth, that Glaucus and lone went forth to enjoy the cooled 
and grateful air. At that time, various carriages were in use 
among the Romans ; the one most used by the richer citizens, 
when they required no companion in their excursions, was the 
tiga, already described in the early portion of this work ; that 
appropriated to the matrons, was termed carpentum* which had 
commonly two wheels ; the ancients used also a sort of litter, a 
vast sedan-chair, more commodiously arranged than the modern, 
inasmuch as the occupant thereof could lie down at ease, in- 
stead of being perpendicularly and stiffly jostled up and down.f 
There was another carriage, used both for travelling and for 
excursions in the country ; it was commodious, containing three 
or tour peisuiiC with ease, having a covering which could be 
raised at pleasure , and, in short, answering very much the 
purpose of (though very different in shape from) the modern 
britska. It was a vehicle of this description that the lovers, 
accompanied by one female slave of lone, now used in their 

♦ For public festivals and games they used one more luxurious and 
costly, called pilentum, with four wheels. 

T But they had also the sella, or sedan, in which they sat as we d<x 


1^00 


THE LAST £>A YS OF POMPEII, 


excursion. About ten miles from the city, there was at that 
day an old ruin, the remains of a temple, evident y Grecian ; 
and as for Glaucus and lone everything Grecian possessed an 
interest, they had agreed to visit these ruins : it was thither they 
were now bound. 

Their road lay among vines and olive-groves : till, winding 
more and more towards the higher ground of Vesuvius, the 
path grew rugged; the mules moveu lowly, and with labor; 
and at every opening in the wood th y beheld those gray and 
horrent caverns indenting the par" '^ed ock, which Strabo has 
described ; but which the various revolutions of time and the 
volcano have removed from the present aspect of the moun- 
tain. The sun, sloping towards his descent, cast long and 
deep shadows over the mountain: her and there they still 
heard the rustic reed of the shepherd amongst copses of the 
beech-wood and wild-oak. Sometimes they marked the form 
of the silk-haired and graceful capella, with its wreathing horn 
and bright gray eye — which, still beneath Ausonian skies, recalls 
the eclogues of Maro — ^browsing half-way up the hills ; and the 
grapes, already purple with the smiles of the deepening summer, 
glowed out from the arched festoons, which hung pendent from 
tree to tree. Above them, light clouds float-'d in the serene 
heavens, sweeping so slowly athwart the firmament that they 
scarcely seemed to stir ; while, on their right they caught, ever 
and anon, glimpses of the waveless sea, with some light bark 
skimming its surface ; and the sunlight breaking over the deep 
in those countless and softest hues so peculiar to that delicious 
sea. 

“ How beautiful ! ” said Glaucus, in a half-whispered tone, 
** is that expression by which we call Earth our Mother ! With 
what a kindly equal love she pours her blessings upon her 
children ! and even to those sterile spots to which Nature has 
denied beauty, she yet contrives to dispense her smiles ; wit- 
ness the arbutus and the vine, which she wreathes over the arid 
and burning soil of yon extinct volcano. Ah ! in such an hour 
and scene as this, well might we imagine that the laughing face 
of the Faun should peep forth from those green festoons ; or, 
that we might trace the steps of the Mountain Nymph through 
the thickest mazes of the giade. But the Nymphs ceased, 
beautiful lone, when thou wert created ! ” 

Th . re is no tongue that flatters like a lover’s , and yet, in the 
exaggeration of his feelings, flattery seems to him commonplace. 
Strange and prodigal exuberance, which soon exhausts itself by 
#verflowing ! 

They arrived at the ruins : they examined them with that 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


201 


fondness with which we trace the hallowed and household ves* 
tiges of our own ancestry — they lingered there till Hesperus 
apoeared in the ’"osy heavens ; and then returning homeward in 
the twilight, they were more silent than they had been , for, in 
die shadow and beneath the stars, they felt more oppressively 
liieir mutual love. 

It was at this time that the storm which the Egyptian had 
predicted began to creep visibly over them. At first, a low and 
distant thunder gave warning of the approaching conflict of the 
elements ; and then rapidly rushed above the dark ranks of the 
serried clouds. The suddenness of storms in that climate is 
something almost preternatural, and might well suggest to early 
superstition the notion of a divine agency — a few' large drops 
broke heavily among the boughs that half overhung their path, 
and then, swift and intolerably bright, the forked lightning 
darted across their very eyes, and was swallowed up by the in- 
creasing darkness. 

Swifter, good Carrucarius ! ” cried Glaucus to the driver* 
“ the tempest comes on apace.” 

The slave urged on the mules — they went swift over the un- 
even and stony road — the clouds thickened, near and more near 
broke the thunder, and fast rushed the dashing rain. 

“ Dost thou fear 1 ” whispered Glaucus, as he sought excuse 
in the storm to come nearer to lone. 

“ Not with thee,” said she, softly. 

At that instant, the carriage, fragile and ill-contrived (aa^, 
despite their graceful shapes, were, for practical uses, most of 
such inventions at that time), struck violently into a deep rut; 
over which lay a log of fallen wood ; the driver, with a curse, 
stimulated his mules yet faster for the obstacle, the wheel was 
torn from the socket, and the carriage suddenly overset. 

Glaucus, quickly extricating himself from the vehicle, 
hastened to assist lone, who was fortunately unhurt; with some 
difficulty they raised the carruca (or carriage), and found that 
it ceased any longer even to afford them shelter ; the springs 
that fastened the covering were snapped asunder, and the rain 
poured fast and fiercely into the interior. 

In this dilemma, what was to be done ? They were yet some 
distance from the city — no house, no aid, seemed near. 

“ There is,” said the slave, “ a smith about a mile off ; I 
could seek him, and he might fasten ac least the wheel to the 
carruca— but, Jupiter ! how the rain beats ! my mistress will be 
wet before I come back.’ 

“ Run thither at least,” said Glaucus r “ we must find tfafi 
best shelter we can till veu rctuin.” 


$02 


fHE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIj, 


The lane was overshadowed with trees, beneath the amplest 
of which GJaucus drew lone. He endeavored, by strinping 
his own cloak, to shield her yet more from tne rapid rain ; but 
it descended with a fury that broke through ah puny obstacles i 
and sudden .y, while Glaucus was yet whispering courage to his 
beautiful charge, the iightning struck one oi the trees imme- 
diately before them, and split with a mignty crash its huge 
trunk in twain. This awful incident apprised them of the 
danger they braved in their present slieiter. and Glaucus 
looked anxiously rouna for some less perilous place of refuge. 
**We are now,” said he, “ half-way up the ascent of Vesuvius ; 
there ought to be some cavern, or hollow, in the vine-clad 
rocks, could we but find it, in which the deserting Nymphs 
have lert a shelter.” While thus saying he moved from the 
trees, and looking wistfully towards the mountain discevered 
through the advancing gloom a red and tremulous dght at no 
considerable distance. “ That must come,*’ said he, from 
tne nearth of some shepherd or vine arcsscr — it will g^iide us 
to some hospitable Tetrcat. Wilt thou stay here, while I — yet 
no — that would be to Ic-ive thee to danger.’ 

“ I .viL go with you cheerfully,” said lore. Open as the 
t-pace seems, it is better than the treacherous che.ter of these 
boughs. 

Half leading, half carrying lone, Glaucus, accompanic'^ 
the trembling female slave, advanced towards tiiC light, which 
vet burnt red and steadfastly. At length the space was nc 
longer open ; wild vines entangled their utops, and hid from 
tnem, save by imperfect intervals, the guioing beam. But 
faster and fiercer came the rain, and the ligl ining assumed its 
most deadly and blasting form , dicy wer - stil”, therefore, im- 
pelled onward, hoping at .ast, the lip^ht cludeo them, to 
arrive at some cottage, or seme friendly cavern. The vines 
grew more and more intricate — th ■ ligh‘ was intircly snatched 
fr( m th?m out a uaiT)w ^^at’^ v/hich they ♦^rod with labor arxj 
pain guiued ^nly by th constant and long-lingering flashes f 
die storm, continued tt had them towards its direction. The 
rain ceasea saaaeniy ; precipitous and rougn crags of set rched 
lava frown ^d c efo-e them .endured more fearful by the light- 
ning that illumii.ud the dark and dangercu Cx.il. Sometiirer 
the blaze lingered over the iron-gray heans of pccria, covered 
.n part with ancient mosses or stuntea tre e, as if seeking in 
v an for some gentler product of earth, mcr^ worthy of its ire; 
and sometimes leaving the whole of that part ot the scene ir 
drrltncss, the lightning, broad and sheeted, hung redly over the 
ocfc n. tossing far bulo\. ur.iii its '.7'''‘as seemxxi glowing intc 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


203 

fire and so intense was the blaze, that it brought vividly into 
view even the sharp outline of the more distant windings ot the 
bay, from the eternal Misenum, with its lofty brow, to the beauti- 
ful Sorrentum and the giant hills behind. 

Our lovers stopped in perplexity and doubt, when suddenly, 
as the darkness that gloomed between the fierce flashes of 
lightning once more wrapped them round, they saw near, but 
high, before them, the mysterious light. Another blaze, in 
which heaven and earth w^ere reddened, made visible to them 
the whole expanse ; no house was near, but just where they had 
beheld the light, they thought they saw in the recess of a cav- 
ern the outline of a human form. The darkness once more 
returned ; the light, n longer paled beneath the fires of heaven, 
burned forth again • they resolved to ascend towards it, they 
had to wind their way among vast fragments of stone, here and 
there overhung with wdld bushes ; but they gained nearer and 
nearer to the light, and at length they stood opposite the 
mouth f kind of cavern, apparently formed by huge splinters 
of rock that had fallen transversely athwart each other : and, 
looking into the gloom, each drew back involuntarily with a 
superstitious fear and chill. 

A fire burned in the far recess of the cave ; and over it was 
a small caldron ; on a tall and thin column of iron stood a /ude 
lamp ; over that part of the wall, at the base of which burned 
the fire, hung in many rows, as if to dry, a profusion of herbs 
and weeds. A fox, crouched before the fire, gazed upon the 
strangers with its bright and red eye — its hair bristling — and a 
low growl stealing from between its teeth ; in the centre of the 
cave was an earthen statue, which had three heads of a singular 
and fantastic cast : they were formed by the real skulls of a dog, 
a horse, and a boar , a low tripod stood before this wild repre- 
sentation of the popular Hecate. 

But i" was not these appendages and appliances of the cave 
that thr? led the blood of those who gazed fearfully therein — 
it was th e face of its inmate. Before the fire, with the light 
shining full upon her features, sat a woman of conriderable 
age. Perhaps in no country are there seen so many hags as 
in Italy — in no country does beauty so awfully change, m age, 
to hideousness the most appalling and revolting. But the old 
woman now before them was not one of these specimens of 
the extreme of human ugliness; on the contraig her counte* 
nance betrayed the remains of a :*egular but high and aquiline 
order of feature : with stony eyes turned upon them — with a 
look that met and fascinated theirs — they beheld in that fear- 
bil countenance the very image ot a corpse ! — the same, tho 


304 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


glazed and lustreless regard, the blue and shrunken lips, the 
drawn and hollow jaw — the dead, lank hair, of a pale gray— ‘ 
the livid, green, ghastly skin, which seemed all surely tinged 
and tainted by the grave ! 

“ It is a dead thing ! ” said Glaucus. 

“ Nay — it stirs — it is a ghoct or larva^^ faltered lone, as 
she clung to the Athenian’s brc- ot. 

“ Oh, away — aw y ” groaned the slave, “ it is the Witch 
of Vesuvius ! ” 

“ Who are ye ? ” said a hollow and ghostly voice. “ And 
what do ye here ? ” 

The sound, terrible and death-like as it was — suiting well 
the countenance of the speaker, and seeming rather the voice 
of some bodiless wanderer of the Styx than living mortal, would 
have made lone shrink back into the pitiless fury of the storm, 
but Glaucus, though not without some misgiving, drew her into 
the cavern. 

“We are storm-beaten wanderers from the neighboring 
city,” said he, “ and decoyed hither by yon light ; we crave 
shelter and the comfort of your hearth.” 

As he spoke, the fox rose from the ground and advanced 
towards the strangers, sh'-wing from end to end its white teeth, 
and deepening in its menacing growl. 

“ Down, slave ! ” said the witch ; and at the sound of hei 
voice the beast dropped at once, covering its face with its 
brush, and keeping only its quick, vigilant eye, fixed upon the 
invaders of its repos:. “ Come to the fire, if ye will ! ” said she 
turning to Glaucus and his companions. “ I never welcome 
living thing — save the owl, the f-r, the toad and the viper — so 
I cannot welcome ye ; but come to the fire without welcome — 
why stand upon form ? ” 

The language in which the hag addressed them was strange 
and barbarous Latin, interlarded with many words of some 
more rude and ancient dialect. She did not stir from her seat, 
but gazed stonily upon them as Glaucus now released lone of 
her outer wrapping garments, and making her place herself on 
a log of wood, which was the only other seat he perceived at 
hand — fanned with his breath the embers into a more glowing 
flame. The slave, encouraged by the boldness of her superiors, 
divested herself also of her long palla^ and crept timorously to 
the opposite comer of the hearth. 

“ We disturb you, I fear,” said the silver voice of lone, in 
conciliation. 

The witch did not reply — she seemed like one who has 
awakened for a moment from the dead, and has then relapsed 
once more into the eternal slumber. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


20 ^ 

‘‘Tell me,” said she suddenly, and after a long pause, ‘‘ ape 
ye brother and sister ? ” 

“ No,” said lone, blushing. 

Are you married ? ” 

‘ Not so, ’ replied Glaucus. 

“ Ho, lovers ! — ha ! — ha ! — ha ! ” and the witch laughed so 
loud and so long that the cavern rang again. 

The heart of lone stood stih at that strange mirth. Glaucus 
muttered a rapid countcr-spell to th omen — and the slave 
turned as pa-ie as the cheek of the witch herself. 

“ Why dost thou laugh, old crone ? ” said Glaucus, some 
what sternly, as he concluded his invocation. 

“ Did I laugh ? ” said the hag, absently. 

“ She is in her dotage,” whispered Glaucus : as he said this 
he caught the eye of the hag fixed upon him with a malignant 
and vivid glare. 

“ Thou liest ! ” said she abruptly. 

“ Thou art an uncourteous welcomer,” returned Glaucus. 

“ Hush ! provoke her not, dear Glaucu*? ! ” whispered lone. 

“ I will tell thee why I laughed when I discovered ye were 
lovers,” said the ol woman. “ It was because it is a pleasure 
to the old and withered t- look upon young hearts like yours 
— and to know th^ time will come when you will loathe each 
other — loathe — loathe — ha ! — ha ! — ha ! ” 

It was now lone’s turn to pray against the unpleasing 
prophecy. 

“ The gods forbid ! ’' said she. “ Yet, poor woman, thoa 
knowest little of love, or thou wouldst know that it never 
changes.” 

“ Was I young once, think ye ? ” returned the hag, quickly; 
“ and am I old, and hx Jeous, and deathly now ? Such as is 
the form, so is the hean.” With these words she sank again 
into a stilLxOx i profound and learful, as if the cessation of life 
itself. 

“ Hast thou dwv-lt here long ” said Glaucus, after a pause, 
feeling un.-omfortably oppressed beneath a silence so appah 
ling. 

“Ah, long'. — yes.” 

“ It is bu<- a drear abode.” 

“ Ha 1 tnou mayst well say that — Hell is beneath us ! ” 
replied the hag, pointing her bony finger to the earth. “ And 
I will tell thee a secret — the dim things below are preparing 
wrath for ye above — you, the young, and the thoughtless, and 
the beautiful.” 

“ Thou utterest but evil words, ill-becoming the hospitable^* 


2o6 last da YS of POMPEII. 

said Glaucus ; and in future I will brave the tempest rathel 
than thy welcome.” 

“ Thou wilt do well. None should ever seek me — save thd 
wretched ! ” 

“ And why the wretched ? ” asked the Athenian. 

“ I am the witch of the mountain,” replied the sorceresSi 
with a ghastly grin ; “ my trade is to give hope to the hope- 
less: for the crossed in love I have philtres; for the ava- 
ricious, promi':':;S of treasure ; for the malicious potions of 
revenge ; for the happy and the good, I have only what life 
has — curses ! Trouble me no more.” 

With this the grim tenant of the cave relapsed into a silence 
so obstinate and sullen, that Glaucus in vain endeavored to 
draw her into farther conversation. She did not evince, by any 
alteration of her locked and rigid features, that she even heard 
Aim. Fortunately, however, the storm, which was brief as 
violent, began now to relax ; the rain grew less and less fierce ; 
and at last, as the clouds parted, the moon burst forth in the 
purple opening of heaven, and streamed clear and full into that 
desolate abode. Never had she shone, perhaps, on a group 
more worthy of the painter’s art. The ycung, the all-beautiful 
lone, seated by that rude fire — her lover, already forgetful of 
the presence of the hag, at her feet, gazing upward to her face, 
and whispering sweet words — the pale and affrighted slave at 
a. Uttle distance — and the ghastly hag resting her deadly eyes 
upon them ; yet seemingly serene and fearless (for the compan- 
ionship of love hath such a power) were these beautiful beings, 
things of another sphere, in that dark and unholy cavern, with 
its gloomy quaintness of appurtenance. The fox regarded 
them from his corner with his keen and fiery eye ; and as Glau- 
cus now turned towards the witch, he perceived for the first 
time, just under her seat, the bright gaze and crested head of 
a large snake ; whether it was that the vivid coloring of the 
Athenian’s cloak, thrown over the shoulders of lone, attracted 
the reptile’s anger — its crest began to blow and rise, as if men- 
acing and preparing itself to spring upon the Neapolitan ; — 
Glaucus caught quickly at one of the half-burned logs upon the 
hearth — and, as if enraged at the action, the snake came forth 
from its shelter, and with a loud hiss raised itself on end till its 
height nearly approached that of the Greek. 

“ Witch ! ” cried Glaucus, “ command thy creature, or thou 
wilt see it dead.” 

“ It has been despoiled of its venom ! said the witch, 
aroused at his threat ; but ere the words had left her lip, the 
snake had sprung upon Glaucus ; quick and watchful, the agils 


TBfA JLASr DATS OA rOmPBIL 


'JOT 

Uveeb’ lieapei U^rhtly aside, and struct so fell and dexterous \ 
blow OE the head of the ‘^ake, that ** fcl) prostrate and writhe 
ing among the embers ol t^>e fire. 

The hag sprang up, olJ stood confronting Glaucus wim f 
face wh’ch would have befitted the fiercest ot the Kurils, so ut 
terly dire ' nd wrathful was its expression -yei even in horrof 
and ghastliness preserving the outline and trace ol beauty--, 
and utterly free from that coarse grotesque at which cht mag^ 
{nations of the North have sought the source of reiror 

**Thou hast," said she, in a slow and steady vo - e ~ which 
belied the expression of her face, so much was if pass onless 
and calm — ** thon hast had shelter under toy root oaid waxxniJft 
at my hearth, tmu has retumed e.n i.or good, ou hart 
smitten and haply slain the *h*ng chat loved me nd was -iine; 
nay, more, the creature, above all others, Cv>nsecr. tid o '^ods 
and deemed venerable by man*- -now hear .hy pun ih nent 
By the m^on, who is the guardian of the sorceress — by )rcus, 
who is the treasurer of wrath— I enrse thee ! and thou art 
cursed ! May t^y love be blasted — may thy name be black- 
ened — may the .nfernals mark thee — may thy heart wither 
and scorch — may thy last hour recall to thee the prophet voice 
of the Saga of Vesuvius! and thou" — she adde'^, turning 
sharply towards lone, and raising her right arm, when Glaucus 
burst impetuously on her speech : 

“ Hag I ” cried he, “ forbear 1 Me thou hast cursed, and 
I commit myself to the gods — I defy and scorn thee I but 
breathe but one word against yon maiden, and I will convert the 
oaih on thy foul lips to thy dying groan. Beware ! " 

“ I have done," replied the hag, laughing wildly ; “ for in 
thy doom is she who loves thee accursed. And not the less, 
that I heard /le*' lips breathe thy name, and know by what 
word to commend thee to the demons. Glauais — thou art 
doomed 1 ” So saying, the witch turned from the Athenian, and 
kneeling down beside her wounded favorite, which she dragged 
from the hearth, she turned to them her face no more. 

“ O Glaucus I " said lone, greatly terrified, “ what have we 
done ? — Let us hasten from this place , the storm has ceased. 
Good mistress, forgive him — recall thy words — he meant but to 
defend himself — accept this peace-offering to unsay the said : ” 
and lone, stooping, placed her purse .^n the hag’s lap. 

“ Away I " said she, bitterly — “ away ! The oath once woven 
the Fates only can untie. Away 1 " 

♦A peculiar sanctity was attached by the Romans (as. Indeed, by perhaps 
every ancient people) to serpents, which they kept tame in their houses, and 
often introduced at their meals. 


2o8 


THE m^AST da vs of POMPEII, 


** Come, dearest ! said Glaucus, impatiently. “ Thinkest 
thou h .t the gods above us or below hear the impotent ravings 
of dotao^e ? me ! ” 

Long and *oud rang the echoes of the cavern with the dread 
laugh f the sag — s.' e oeigned no further reply. 

The > vers ...ithed more freely when they gained the 
op.n ir ; t h“ ne tn.y had witnessed, the words and the 
iaug’ ter i e .V h, still f:'. fully dwelt with lone; and ovjn 
GL’-.ciia Id ct thoroughly shake off the impression they 
be-^ ’ heJ The ^.t^.rm had subsided — save, n 'W and then, a 
low V uii 'er mu er^d at the distance amidst the darker clouds, 
r a mom^ut v '’a h of lightning affronted the sovereignty of 
th moon. W th some difficulty they regained the road, where 
th jy found tliC vehicle already sufficiently repairea for their 
d-parti:re, and the carrucarius calling loudly upon Hercules to 
toll him wl.ere his charge had vanished. 

Gkucus vainly endeavor 3d to cheer the exhausted spirits 
of lone ; and scarce less vainly t( recover the elastic tone of 
his )wn natural gayety. They soon arrived before the gate of 
the city ; as it opened to them, a litter borne by slaves impeded 
the way. 

“ It is too late for egress,” cried the sentinel to the inmate 
of the litter. 

‘‘Not so,” said a voice, which the lovers started to hear; 
it was a voice they well recognized. “ I am bound to the villa 
of Marcus Polybius. I shall return shortly. I am Arbaces the 
Egyptian.” 

I'he scruples of him of the gate were removed, and the litter 
passed close beside the carriage that bore the lovers. 

“ Arbaces, at this hour ! — scarce recovered too, methinks !— 
Whither and for what can he leave the city ? ” said Glai -us. 

“ Alas ! ” replied lone, bursting into tears, “ my soul h 3I3 
still more and more the omen of evil. Preserve us, O ye jrds; 
or at least,” she murmured inly, “ preserve my h ^nc ! ” 


CHAPTER X. 

The Lord of the burning belt and his minion. — Fate writes her prophecy in 
red letters, but who shall read them > 

Arbaces had tarried only till the cessation of the 'pest 
allowed him, under cover of night, to seek the Saga of Vesu- 
vius. Borne by those of his trustier slaves in whom in all more 


THE LAST DA x/E POMPEII, 


209 

secret expeditions he was accustomed to confide, he lay ex- 
tended along his litter, and resigning his sanguine heart to the 
contemplation of vengeance gratified and love possessed. The 
slaves in so short a journey moved very little slower than the 
ordinary pace of mules ; and Arbaces soon arrived at the com- 
mencement of a narrow path, which the lovers had not been 
fortunate enough to discover; but which, skirting the thick 
vines, led at once to the habitation of the witch. Here he rested 
the li:ter , and bidding his slaves conceal themselves and the 
vehicle among the vines from the observation of any chance 
passenger, he mounted alone, with steps still feeble but sup- 
ported by a long staff, the drear and sharp ascent. 

Not a drop of rain fell from the tranquil heaven ; but the 
moisture dripped mournfully from the laden boughs of the vine, 
and now and then collected in tiny pools in the crevices and 
hollows of the rocky way. 

“ Strange passions these for a philosopher,” thought Ar- 
baces, “ that led one like me just new from the bed of death, 
and lapped even in health amidst the roses of luxury, across 
such nocturnal paths as this ; but Passion and Vengeance tread- 
ing to their goal can make an Elysium of a Tartarus.” High, 
clear, and melancholy shone the moon above the road of that 
dark wayfarer, glassing herself in every pool that lay before 
him, and sleeping in shadow along the sloping mount. He saw 
before him the same light that had guided the steps of his in- 
tended victims, but, no longer contrasted by the blackened 
clouds, it shone less redly clear. 

He paused, as at length he approached the mouth of the 
cavern, to recover breath ; and then, with his wonted collected 
and stately mien, he crossed the unhallowed threshold. 

The fox sprang up at the ingress of this newcomer, and by 
a long howl announced another visitor to his mistress. . 

The witch had resumed her seat, and her aspect of gravelike 
and grim repose. By her feet, upon a bed of dry weeds which 
half covered it, lay the wounded snake ; but the quick eye of 
the Egyptian caught its scales glittering in the reflected light of 
the opposite fire, as it writhed, — now contracting, now lengthen- 
ing its folds, in pain and unsated anger. 

“ Down, slave I ” said the witch, as before, to the fox ; and, 
as before, the animal dropped to the ground — mute, but 
vigilant. 

“ Rise, servant of Nox and Erebus 1 ” said Arbaces, com- 
mandingly; “a superior in thine art salutes thee! rise, and 
welcome him.” 

At these words the hag turned her gaze the Eygp 


2X0 


THE LAST DA VS OF JFOMPEIL 


tian’s towering form and dark features. She looked long and 
fixedly upon him, as he stood before her in his Oriental robe, 
and folded arms, and steadfast and haughty brow. “ Who art 
thou,” she said at last, “ that calleth thyself greater in art than 
the Saga of the Burning Fields, and the daughter of the perished 
Etrurian race ? ” 

“ I am he,” answered Arbaces, “from whom all cultivators 
of magic, from north to south, from east to west, from the 
Ganges and the Nile to the vales of Thessaly and the shores 
of the yellow Tiber, have stooped to learn.” 

“ There is but one such man in these places, answered the 
witch, “ whom the men of the other world, unknowing his 
loftier attributes and more secret fame, call Arbaces the Egyp- 
tian : to us of a higher nature and deeper knowledge, his 
rightful appellation i . Hermes of the Burning Girdle.” 

“ Look again,” returne ’ Arbaces : “ I am he.” 

As he spoke he drew aside his robe, and revealed a cinc- 
ture seemingly of fire, that burned around his waist, clasped 
in the centr by a plate whereon was engraven some sign ap- 
parently vague and unintelligible, but which was evidently not 
unknown to the saga. She rose hastily, and threw herstlf at 
the feet of Arbaces. “I have seen, then,” said she, in a 
voice of deep humility, “ the Lord of the Mighty Girdle— 
vouchsafe my homage.” 

“ Rise,” said the Egyptian ; “ I have need of thee.” 

So saying, he placed himself on the same log of wood on 
which lone had rested before, and motioned to the witch to 
resume her seat. 

“ Thou sayest,” said he, as she obeyed, “ that thou art a 
daughter of the ancient Etrurian* tribes ; the mighty walls ol 
whose rock-built cities yet frown above the robber race that 
hath seized upon thei* ancient reign. Partly came those tribes 
from Greece, partly were they exiles from a more burning and 
primeval soil. In either case art thou of Egyptian lineage, 
for the Grecian masters of the aboriginal helot were among 
the restless sons whom the Nile banished from her bosonu 
Equally, then, O Saga ! thy descent is from ancestors that 
swore allegiance to mine own. By birth as by knowledge art 
thou the subject of Arbaces. Hear me, then, and obey 1 ” 

The witch bowed her head. 

* The Etrurians (it may be superfluous to mention) were celebrated for 
their enchantments. Arbaces is wrong in assuming their Egyptian origin, 
but the Egyptians arrogated the ancestry of almost every one of the moro 
illustrious races, and there are not wanting modem schoolmen who too 
credulously, support the clair 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


2If 


“ Whatever art we possess in sorcery,” continued Arbaces, 
“ we are sometimes driven to natural means to attain our ob- 
ject. The ring * and the crystal,! and the ashes t and the 
herbs, § do not give unerring divinations ; neither do the higher 
mysteries of the moon yield even the possessor of the girdle 
a dispensation from the necessity of employing ever and anon 
human measures for a human object. Mark me, then : thou 
art deeply skilled, methinks, in the secrets of the more deadly 
herbs i thou knowest those which arrest life, which burn and 
scorch the soul from out her citadel, or freeze the channels of 
young blood into that ice which no sun can melt Do I over- 
rate thy skill .? Speak, and truly ! ” 

Mighty Hermes, such lore is, indeed, mine own. Deign 
to look at these ghostly and corpse-like features; they have 
waned from the hues of life merely by watching over the rank 
herbs which simmer night and day in yon cauldron.” 

The Egyptian moved his seat from so unblessed or so un- 
healthful a vicinity, as the witch spoke. 

“ It is well,” said he ; “ thou hast learned that maxim of all 
the deeper knowledge which saith, * Despise the body ;o make 
wise the mind.* But to my task. There cometh to thee by 
to-morrow’s starlight a vain maiden, seeking of thine art a 
love-charm to fascinate from anoth r the eyes that should 
utter but soft tales to her own ; instead of thy philtres, give 
the maiden one of thy most powerful poisons. Let the lover 
breathe his vows to the Shades.” 

The witch trembled from head to foot. 

“ Oh, pardon ! pardon ! dread master,” said she, falteringly ; 
" but this I dare not The law in these cities is sharp and 
vigilant ; they will seize, they will slay me.” 

“ For what purpose, then, thy herbs and thy potions, vain 
Saga ? ” said Arbaces, sneeringly. 

The witch hid her loathsome face with her hands. 

“ Oh 1 years ago,*’ said she, in a voice unlike her usual 
tones, so plaintive was it, and so soft, “ I was not the thing 
that I am now, — I loved, I fancied myself beloved.” 

“ And what connection hath thy love with my commands ? ** 
said Arbaces, impetuously. 

“Patience,” resumed the witch; “patience, I implore. I 
loved ! another and less fair than I — ^yes, by Nemesis ! less fair 
— allured from me my chosen. I was of that dark Etrurian 
tribe to whom most of all were known the secrets of the 
gloomier magic. My mother was herself a saga j she shared 


212 


THE LAST DA YS OF ^DMeEIL 


the resentment of her child ; from her hands I received the 
potion that was to restore me his love ; and from her, also, the 
poison that was to destroy my rival. Oh, crush me, dread 
walls I my trembling hands mistook the phials, my lover fell 
indeed at my feet ; but dead I dead ! Since then, what has 
been life to me ? I became suddenly old, I devoted myself to 
the sorceries of my race ; still by an irresistible impulse I curse 
myself with an awful penance ; still I seek the most noxious 
herbs ; still I concoct the poisons ; still I imagine that I am to 
give them to my hated rival ; still I pour them into the phial, 
still I fancy that they shall blast her beauty to the dust ; still I 
wake and see the quivering body, the foaming lips, the glazing 
eyes of my Aulus — murdered, and by me !’* 

The skeleton frame of the witch shook beneath strong con- 
vulsions. 

Arbaces gazed upon her with a curious though contemp- 
tuous eye. 

“ And this foul thing has yet human emotions ! ” thought 
he : “ she still cowers over the ashes of the same fire that con- 
sumes Arbaces ! — Such are we all ! Mystic is the tie of those 
mortal passions that unite the greatest and the least.” 

He did not reply till she had somewhat recovered herself, and 
now sat rocking to and fro in her seat, with glassy eyes fixed on 
the opposite frame, and large tears rolling down her livid cheeks. 

“ A grievous tale is thine, in truth,” said Arbaces. “ But 
these emotions are fit only for our youth — age should harden 
our hearts to all things but ourselves; as every year adds a 
scale to the shell-fish, so should each year wall and incrust the 
heart. Think of those frenzies no more I And now, listen to 
me again ! By the revenge that was dear to thee, I command 
thee to obey me ! it is for vengeance that I seek thee ! This 
youth whom I would sweep from my path has crossed me, 
despite my spells : this thing of purple and broidery, of smiles 
ai»d glances, soulless and mindless, with no charm but that of 
beauty — accursed be it ! — this insect — this Glaucus — I tell thee, 
by Orcus and by Nemesis, he must die.” 

And working himself up at every word, the Egyptian, for- 
getful of his debility — of his strange companion — of every- 
thing but his own vindictive rage, strode, with large and rapid 
steps, the gloomy cavern. 

“ Glaucus ! saidst thou, mighty master ! ” said the witch, 
abruptly ; and her dim eye glared at the name with all that 
fierce resentment at the memory of small affronts so common 
amongst the solitary and the shunned. 

“ Ay, so he is called ; but what matters the name ? Let it not 
be heard as that of a living man three dayd f'^nm this date I ** 


THE LAST DA YS OT POMPEII, 


213 

“ Hear me ! ” said the witch, breaking from a short reverie 
into which she was plunged after this last sentence of the 
Egyptian. “ Hear me ! I am thy thing and thy slave spare 
me 1 If I give to the maiden thou speakest of that which 
would destroy the life of Glaucus, I shall be surely detected — 
the dead ever find avengers. Nay, dread man I if thy visit 
to me be tracked, if thy hatred to Glaucus be known, thou 
mayest have need of thy archest magic to protect thyself ! ” 

“ Ha ! ” said Arbaces, stopping suddenly short ; and as a 
proof of that blindness with which passion darkens the eyes 
even of the most acute, this was the first time when the risk 
that he himself ran by this method of vengeance had occurred 
to a mind ordinarily wary and circumspect. 

“ But,” continued the witch, “ if instead of that which shall 
arrest the heart, I give that which shall sear and blast the 
brain — ^which shall make him who quaffs it unfit for the uses 
and career of life — an abject, raving, benighted thing — smiting 
sense to drivelling, youth to dotage — wLl not thy vengeance 
be equally sated — thy object equally attained ? ” 

“ Oh, witch ! nc longer the servant, but the sister — ^the 
equal of Arbaces — how much brighter is woman’s wit, even 
in vengeance, than ourr 1 how much mor exquisite than death 
is such a doom ! ” 

“ And,” contii.ued the hag, gloating over her fell scheme, 
** in this is but little danger : for by ten thousand methods, 
which men forbear to seek, can our victim become mad. He 
may have been among the vines and seen a nymph* — or the 
vine itself may have had the same effect — ha ! ha ! they never 
inquire too scrupulously into these matters in which the godf 
may be agents. And let the worst arrive — let it be known ^hat 
k is a love-charm — why, madness is a common effect of philtres; 
and even the fair she that gave it finds indulgence in the ex 
cuse. Mighty Hermes, have I ministered to thee cunningly ? ” 
“ Thou ..halt have twenty years’ longer date for this,” re- 
turned Arbaces. “ I will write anew the epoch of thy fate on 
the face of the pale stars — ^thou shalt not serve in vain the 
Master of thr Flaming Belt. And here. Saga, carve thee out, 
by these golden tools, a warmer cell in this dreary cavern- 
one service to me shall countervail a thousand divinations by 
sieve and shears to the gaping rustics.” So saying, he cak 
upon the floor a heavy purse, which clinked not unmusically to 
the ear of the hag, who loved the consciousness of possessiir 

♦ To see a nymph was to become r ad, accorc g , o c... -ic and pep. 
superstition. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


214 

die means to purchase comforts she disdained. ** FareweH,* 
said Arbaces, ** fail not — outwatch the stars in concocting thy 
beverage — thou shalt lord it over thy sisters at the Walnut- 
tree,* when thou tellest them that thy patron and thy friend is 
Hermes the Egyptian. To-morrow night we meet again.” 

He stayed not to hear the valediction or the thanks of the 
witch ; with a quick step he passed into the moon-lit air, and 
hastened down the mountain. 

The witch, who followed his steps to the threshold, stood 
long at the entrance of the cavern, gazing fixedly cn his re- 
ceding form ; and as the sad moonlight streamed upon her 
shadowy form and death-like face, emerging from the dismal 
rocks, it seemed as if one gifted, indeed, by supernatural magic 
had escaped irom the dreary Orcus ; and, the foremost of its 
ghostly throng, stood at its black portals — vainly summoning 
his return, or vainly sighing to rejoin him. The hag then 
slowly re-entering the cave, groaningly picked up the heavy 
purse, took the lamp from its stand, and, passing to the remotest 
depths of her cell, a black and abrupt passage, which was not 
visible, save at a near approach, closed round as it was with 
jutting and sharp crags, yawned before her ; she went several 
yards along this gloomy path, which sloped gradually down- 
fcrards, as if towards the bowels of the earth, and, lifting a stone, 
deposited her treasure in a hole beneath, which, as the lamp 
pierced its secrets, seemed already to contain coins of various 
value, wrung from the credulity or gratitude of her visitors. 

“ I love to look at you,” said she, apostrophizing the moneys ; 
^ for when I see you, I feel that I am indeed of power. And 
I am to have twenty years’ longer life to increase your store 1 
O thou great Hermes ! ” 

She replaced the stone, and continued her path onward for 
some paces, when she stopped before a deep irregular fissure in 
the earth. Here, as she bent — strange, rumbling, hoarse, and 
distant sounds might be heard, while ever and anon, with a loud 
and grating noise which, to use a homely but faithful simile, 
seemed to resemble the grinding of steel upon wheels, volumes 
of streaming and dark smoke issued forth, and rushed spirally 
along the cavern. 

“ The Shades are noisier than their wont,” said the hag, 
shaking her gray locks ; and, looking into the cavity, she be- 
held, far down, glimpses of a long streak of light, intensely but 
darkly red. “ Strange 1 ” she said, shrinking back ; “ it is only 

* The celebrated and immemorial rendezvous of the witches at Ben©- 
vento. The winged serpent attached to it, long an object of idolatry ia 
those parts, was probably consecrated by Egyptian superstitions. 


THE LAST DA YS OP POMPEII, 


21 % 

within the last two days that dull deep light hath been Tisible— • 
what can it portend ? 

The fox, wno had attended the steps of his fell mistress 
uttered a dismal howl, and ran cowering back to the inner cave ; 
a cold shuddering seized ch^ hag herself at the cry of the animal, 
which, causeless as it seemed, the ruperstitions of the time con* 
sidered deeply ominous. She muttered her placatory charm, 
and tottered back into her cavern, where, amidst her herbs and 
incantations, she prepared to execute the order of the Egyptian. 

“ He called me dotard,” said she, as the smoke curled from 
the hissing cauldron : “ when the jaws drop, and the grinders 
fall, and the heart scarce beats, it is a pitiable thing to dote ; 
but when,” she added, with a savage and exulting grin, “ the 
young, and the beautiful, and the strong, are suddenly smitten 
into idiocy — ah, that is terrible I Burn flame — simmer herb- 
swelter toad — I cursed him, and he shall be cursed ! ” 

On that night, and at the same hour which witnessed the 
dark and unholy interview between Arbaces and the saga, 
Apscides was baptized. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Progress of events.— The plot thickens. — The web is woven, but the net 
changes hands. 

“ And you have the courage then, Julia, to seek the Witch 
of Vesuvius this evening ; in company, too, with that fearful 
man ? ” 

“Why, Nydia?” replied Julia, timidly ; “dost thou really 
think there is anything to dread ? These old hrgs, with their 
enchanted mirrors, their trembling sieves, and their moon- 
gath';fed herbs, are, 1 imagine, but crafty impostors, who have 
leartied, perhaps, nothing but the very charm for which I apply 
to their skill, and which is drawn but from the knowledge of 
the fie.d's herbs and simples. Wherefore .should I dread? ” 

“ Dost thou not fear thy companion ?” 

' vVhat, Arbaces ? By Dian, 1 never saw lover more cour- 
teous than that same magician 1 And were he not so dark, he 
would be even handsome.” 

Blind as she was, Nydia had the penetration to perceive 
that Julia’s mind was not one that the .gallantries of Arbaces 
were likely to terrify. She therefore dissuaded her no more, 
but nursed in her excited heart tlie wild and increasing desire 


2i6 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


to Icnow if sorcery had indeed a spell to fascinate love to lovft 

“ Let me go with thee, noble Julia,” said she at length ; “ my 
presence is no protection, but I should like to be beside thee to 
the last.” 

“Thine offer pleases me much,” replied the daughter of 
Diomed. “Yet how canst thou contrive it.? we may not return 
until iate — they will miss thee.” 

“ lone is indulgent,” replied Nydia. “ If thou wilt permit me 
to sleep beneath thy roof, I will say that thou, an early patroness 
and fsiend, hast invited me to pass the day with thee, and sing 
thee my Thessalian songs ; her courtesy will readily grant to 
thee so light a boon.” 

“ Nay, ask for thyself ! ” said the haughty Julia. “ I stoop 
to request no favour from the Neapolitan.” 

“ Well, be it so. I will take my leave now ; make my re- 
quest, which I know will be readily granted, and return shortly.” 

“ Do so ; and thy bed shall be prepared in my own cham- 
ber.” 

With that, Nydia left the fair Pompeian. 

On her way back to lone she was met by the chariot of 
Glaucus, on whose fiery and curveting steeds was riveted the 
gaze of the crowded street. 

He kindly stopped for a moment to speak to the flower-girl. 

“ Blooming as thine own roses, my gentle Nydia ! and how 
is thy fair mistress ? — recovered, I trust, from the effects of the 
storm ? ” 

“ I have not seen her this morning,” answered Nydia, 
“ but ” 

“ But what ? draw back — the horses are too near thee.” 

“ But think you lone will permit me to pass the day with 
Julia, the daughter of Diomed ? — She wishes it, and was kind to 
me when I had few friends.” 

“ Th^ gods bless thy grateful heart 1 I will answer for lone’s 
permission.” 

“ Then I may stay over the night, and return to-morrow ? ” 
said Nydia, shrinking from the praise she so little merited. 

“As th )u and fair Juxia please. Commend me to her; and 
hark ye, N dia, when thou hcarest her speak, note the contrast 
of her voice with that of the silver-toned lone. — Fa/e/” 

His spirits entirely recovered from the effects of the past night, 
his locks waving in the wind, his joycus and elastic heart bound- 
ing with every spring of hi.': Parthian steeds, a very prototype of 
his country’s god, full of youth and of love — Glaucus was borne 
rapidly to his mistress. 

Enjoy while ye may the present — who can read the future ? 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


217 

As the evening darkened, Julia, reclining within her litter, 
which was capacious enough also to admit her blind companion, 
took her way to the rural baths indicated by Arbaces. To her 
natural levity of disposition, her enterprise brought less of ter- 
ror than of pleasurable excitement ; above all, she glowed at the 
thought of her coming triumph over the hated Neapolitan. 

A small but gay group was collected round the door of the 
villa, as her litter passed by it to the private entrance of the 
baths appropriated to the women. 

“ Methinks, by this dim light,” said one of the by-standers, 
“ I recognize the slaves of Diomed.” 

“ True, Clodius,” said Sallust : “ it is probably the litter of 
his daughter Julia. She is rich, my friend; why dost thou not 
proffer thy suit to her ? 

“ Why, I had once hoped that Glaucus would have married 
her. She does not disguise her attachment ; and then, as he 
gambles freely and with ill success ” 

“ The sesterces would have passed to thee, wise Clodius. A 
wife is a good thing — when it belongs to another man ! ” 

“ But,” continued Clodius, “ as Glaucus is, I understand, to 
wed the Neapolitan, I think I must even try my chance with the 
dejected maid. After all, the lamp of Plymen will be gilt, and 
the vessel will reconcile one to the odor of the flame. I shall 
only protest, my Sallust, against Diomed’s making f/iee trustee 
to his daughter’s fortune.” * 

“Ha! ha I let us within^ my comissator ; the wine and the 
garlands wait us.” 

Dismissing her slaves to that part of the house set apart for 
their entertainment, Julia entered the baths with Nydia and, 
declining the offers of the attendants, passed by a private door 
into the garden behind. 

“ She comes by appointment, be sure,” said one of the slaves. 

“ What is that to thee ? ” said a superintendent, sourly ; “ she 
pays for the baths, and does not waste the saffron. Such ap- 
pointments are the best part of the trade. Hark 1 do you not 
hear the widow Fulvia clapping her hands? Run, fool — • 
run I ” 

Julia and Nydia, avoiding the more public part of the gar- 
den, arrived at the place specified by the Egyptian. In a 
small circular plot of grass the stars gleamed upon the statue 
of Silenus : — the merry god reclined upon a fragment of rock — 

* It was an ancient Roman law, that no one should make a womanhis heit 
TTiis law was evaded by the parent’s assigning his fortune to a friend in trust 
for his daughter, but the trustee might keep it if he liked- The law had, 
however, fallen into disuse before the date of this sto?T> 


2i8 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII, 


the lynx of Bacchus at his feet — and over his mouth he held^ 
with extended arm, a bunch of grapes, which he seemingly 
laughed to welcome ere he devoured. 

“ I see not the magician,” said Julia, looking round; when, 
as she spoke, the Egyptian slowly emerged from the neighbor- 
ing foliage, and the light fell palely over his sweeping robes. 

“ Salve^ sweet maiden ! — But ha ! whom hast thou here ! 
we must have no companions ! ” 

“ It is but the blind flower-girl, wise magician,” replied 
Julia: “herself a Thessalian.” 

“ Oh ! Nydia ! ” said the Egyptian ; “ I know her well.” 

Nydia drew back and shuddered. 

“ Thou hast been at my house, methinks ! ” said he, ap- 
proaching his voice to Nydia’s ear; “thou knowest the oathl 
— silence and secrecy, now as then, or beware ! ” 

“ Yet,” he added, musingly to himself, “ why confide more 
than is necessary, even in the blind — Julia, canst thou trust 
thyself alone with me ? Believe me, the magician is less for- 
midable than he seems.” 

As he spoke, he gently drew Julia aside. 

“The witch loves not many visitors at once,” said he; 
“ leave Nydia here till your return ; she can be of no assistance 
to us : and, for protection — your own beauty suffices — your own 
beauty and your own rank ; yes, Julia, I know thy name and 
birth. Come, trust thyself with me, fair rival of the youngest 
of the Naiads ! ” 

The vain Julia was not, as we have seen, easily affrighted; 
she was moved by the flattery of Arbaces, and she readily con- 
sented to suffer Nydia to await her return ; nor did Nydia press 
her presence. At the sound of the Egyptian’s voice all her 
terror of him returned ; she felt a sentiment of pleasure at learn- 
ing she was not to travel in his companionship. 

She returned to the Bath-house, and in one of the private 
chambers waited their return. Many and bitter were the 
thoughts of this wild girl as she sat there in her eternal dark- 
ness. She thought of her own desolate fate, far from her 
native land, far from the bland cares that once assuaged the 
April sorrows of childhood ; — deprived of the light of day, with 
none but strangers to guide her steps, accursed by the one soft 
feeling of her heart, loving and without hope, save the dim and 
unholy ray which shot across her mind, as her Thessalian fancies 
questioned of the force of spells and the gifts of magic ! 

Nature had sown in the heart of this poor girl the seeds of 
virtue never destined to ripen. The lessons of adversity are 
uot always salutary — sometimes they soften and amend, but as 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


219 

often they indurate and pervert. If we consider ourselves 
more harshly treated by fate than those around us, and do not 
acknowledge in our own deeds the justice of the severity, we 
become too apt to deem the world our enemy, to case ourselves 
in defiance, to wrestle against our softer self and to indulge the 
darker passions which are so easily fermented by the sense of 
injustice. Sold early into slavery, sentenced to a sordid task- 
master, exchanging her situation, only yet more to embitter her 
lot— -the kindlier feelings naturally profuse in the breast of 
Ny dia, were nipped and blighted. Her sense of right and wrong 
was confused by a passion to which she had so madly surrendered 
herself , and the same intense and tragic emotions which we 
read of in the women of the classic age — a Myrrha, a Medea — 
and which burned and swept away the whole soul when once 
delivered to love — ruled, and rioted in her breast. 

Time passed : a light step entered the chamber where 
Nydia yet indulged her gloomy meditations. 

“ Oh, thanked be the immortal gods ! ” said Julia, “ I have 
returned, I have left that terrible cavern ! Come, Nydia ! let 
us away forthwith ! 

It was not till they were seated in the litter that Julia again 
spoke. 

“ Oh ! ” said she, tremblingly, “ such a scene ! such fearful 
incantations ! and the dead face of the hag ! — But, let us talk 
not of it. I have obtained the potion — she pledges its effect 
My rival shall be suddenly indifferent to his eye, and I, I alone, 
the idol of Glaucus ! ” 

“ Glaucus ! ” exclaimed Nydia, 

“ Ay ! I told thee girl, at first, that it was not the Athenian 
whom I loved ; but I see now that I may trust thee wholly — it is 
the beautiful Greek ! ” 

What then were Nydia’s emotions ! she had connived, she 
had assisted in tearing Glaucus from lone ; but only to transfer, 
by all the j ower of magic, his affections yet more hopelessly to 
another. Her heart swelled almost to suffocation — she gasped 
for breath — in the darkness of the vehicle, Julia did not per- 
ceive the agitation of her companion ; she went on rapidly 
dilating on the promised effect of her acquisition, and on her 
approaching triumph over lone, every now and then abruptly 
digressing to the horror of the scene she had quitted — the un- 
moved mien of Arbaces, and his authority over the dreadful 
saga. 

Meanwhile, Nydia recovered her self-possessio>i : a thought 
flashed across her : she slept in the chamber of Julia — she 
might possess herself of the potion. 


220 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


They arrived at the house of Diomed, and descended t| 
Julia’s apartment, where the night’s repast awaited them. 

“ Drink, Nydia, thou must be cold ; the air was chill to 
night ; as for me, my veins are yet ice.” 

And Julia unhesitatingly quaffed deep draughts of the 
spiced wine. 

“ Thou hast the potion,” said Nydia ; “ let me hold it in 
my hands. How small the phial is ! of what color is the 
draught ? ” 

“ Clear as crystal,” replied Julia, as she retook the philtre ; 
“ thou couldst not tell it from this water. The witch assures 
me it is tasteless. Small though the phial, it suffices for a 
life’s fidelity : it is to be poured into any liquid ; and Glaucus 
will only know \/hat he has quaffed by the effect.” 

“ Exactly likv_ this water in appearance ? ” 

“Yes, sparkling and colorless as this. How bright it 
seems ! It is as the very essence of moonlit dews. Bright 
thing ! how thou shinest on my hopes through thy crystal 
vase ! 

“ And how is it sealed ? ” 

“ But by one little stopper — I withdraw it now — the draught 
gives no odor. Strange, that that which speaks to neither 
sense shouKi '^us command all ! ” 

“ Is thf effect instantaneous ? ” 

“ Usually ; — but sometimes it remains dormant for a few 
hours.” 

“Oh, how sweet is this perfume!” said Nydia, suddenly, 
as she took up a small bottle on the table, and bent over its 
fragrant contents. 

“ Thinkest thou so ? the bottle is set with gems of some 
value. Thou wouldst not have the bracelet yestermorn ; wilt 
thou take the bottle ? ” 

“ It ought to be such perfumes as these that should remind 
one who cannot see of the generous Julia. If the bottle be 
not too costly ” 

“ Oh ! I have a thousand costlier ones •. take it, child I ” 

Nydia bowed her gratitude, a”'’ placed the bottle in her 
vest. 

“ And the draught would be equally efficacious, whoever 
administers it ? ” 

“ If the most hideous hag beneath the sun bestowed it, 
such is its asserted virtue that Glaucus would deem her beauti- 
ful and none but her 1 ” 

Julia, warmed by wine, and the reaction of her spirits, was 
now all animation and delight ; she laughed loud, and talked on 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


221 


a hundred matters — nor was it till the night had advanced far 
towards morning that she summoned her slaves and un- 
dressed. 

When they were dismissed, she said to Nydia — 

“ I will not suffer this holy draught to quit my presence 
until the hour comes for its uses. Lie under my pillow, bright 
spirit, and give me happy dreams ! ” 

So saying, she placed the potion under her pillow. Nydia’s 
heart beat violently. 

“ Why dost thou drink that unmixed water, Nydia ? Take 
the wine by its side.” 

“ I am fevered,” replied the blind girl, “ and the water 
cools me. I will place this bottle by my bedside ; it refreshes 
in these summer nights, when the dews of sleep fall not on 
our lips. Fair Julia, I must leave thee very early — so lone 
bids — perhaps before thou art awake ; accept, therefore, now 
my congratulations.” 

“Thanks: when next we meet, you may find Glaucus at 
my feet.” 

They had retired to their couches, and Julia, worn out by 
the excitement of the day, soon slept. But anxious and burn- 
ing thoughts rolled over the mind of the wakeful Thessalian. 
She listened to the calm breathing of Julia ; and her ear, ac- 
customed to the finest distinctions of sound, speedily assured 
her of the deep slumber of her companion. 

“ Now befriend me, Venus ! ” said she softly. 

She rose gently, and poured the perfume from the gift of 
Julia upon the marble floor — she rinsed it several times care- 
fully with the water that was beside her, and then easily find- 
ing the bed of Julia (for night to her was as day), she pressed 
her trembling hand under the pillow and seized the potion. 
Julia stirred not, her breath regularly fanned the burning 
cheek of the blind girl. Nydia, then, opening the phial, 
poured its contents into the bottle, which easily contained 
them; and then refilling the former reservoir of the potion 
with that limpid water which Julia had assured her it so re- 
sembled, she once more placed the phial in its former place. 
She then stole again to her couch, and waited — with what 
thoughts ! — the dawning day. 

The sun had risen — Julia slept still — Nydia noiselessly 
dressed herself, placed her treasure carefully in her vest, took 
up her staff, and hastened to quit the house. 

The porter, Medon, saluted her kindly as she descended 
the steps that led to the street : she heard him not ; her mind 
was confused and lost in the whirl of tumultuous thoughts, each 


222 THE LAST DA VS OF POMPE/I. 

thought a passk'ii. She felt the pure morning air upon hei 
cheek, but it cooled not her scorching veins. 

“ Glaucus,” she murmured, “ all the love-charms of the 
wildest magic could not make thee l:^ve me as I love thee, 
lone ! — ah, away hesitation ! away remorse ! Glaucus, my fate 
is in thy smile ; and thine ! O hope ! O joy ! O transport !— 
thy fate is in these hands ! ” 


BOOK THE FOURTH. 


CHAPTER I. 

Reflectkms on the zeal of the early Christians. — Two men come to a perilous 
resolve. — Walls have ears — ^particularly sacred walls. 

Whoever regards the early history of Christianity, will per- 
ceive how necessary to its triumph was that fierce spirit of 
Eeal, which, fearing no danger, accepting no compromise, in- 
spired its champions and sustained its martyrs. In a dominant 
church the genius of intolerance betrays its cause ; — in a weak 
and a persecuted church, the same genius mainly supports. It 
was necessary to scorn, to loathe, to abhor the creeds of other 
men, in order to conquer the temptations which they presented 
— it was necessary rigidly to believe not only that the Gospel 
was the true faith, but the sole true faith that saved, in order to 
nerve the disciple to the austerity of its doctrine, and to en- 
courage him to the sacred and perilous chivalry of converting 
the Polytheist and the heathen. The sectarian sternness which 
confined virTie and heaven to a chosen few, which saw demons 
in other gods, and the penalties of hell in another religion — • 
made the believer naturally anxious to convert all to whom he 
felt the ties of human affection ; and the circle thus traced by 
benevolence to man was yet more widened by a desire for the 
gl ry of God. It was for the honor of the Christian faith that 
t!i ' Christian boldly forced his tenets upon the skepticism of 
som:;, Tie repugnance of others, the sage contempt of the phi- 
losopher, e pious shudder of the people ; — his very intolerance 
supplied him wit’ his fittest instruments of success ; and the 


TTm LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 


223 

soft Heathen began at last t3 imagine there must indeed be 
something holy in a zeal wholly foreign to his experience, 
which stopped at no obstacle, dreaded no danger, and even at 
the torture, or on the scaffold referred a dispute far other than 
the calm differences of speculative philosophy to the tribunal 
of an Eterna Judge. It was thus that the same fervor which 
made the Churchman of the middle age a bigot without mercy, 
made the Christian of the early days a hero w'thcut fear. 

Of these more fiery, daring, and earnest natures, not tha 
least ardent was Olinthus. No sooner had Apaecides been re- 
ceived by the rites of baptism into the bosom of the church, 
than the Nazarene hastened to make him consci'^us of the im- 
possibility to retain tne office and robes of priesthood. He 
could not, .t was evident, profess to worship God, and continue 
even outwardly to honor the idolatrous altars of the Fiend. 

Nor was thir" aiJ the sanguine and impetuous mind of 
Olinthus beheiQ in the powjr of Apaecides the means of divulg- 
ing to the deluded peopiC the juggling mysteries of the oracular 
Isis. He thought Heaven had sent this instrument of his de- 
sign in orde- to disaouse the eyes of the crowd, and prepare 
he way, perchance, for the conversion of a whole city. He did 
not hesitate then to appeal to all the new-kindled enthusiasm 
Oi Apaecides, ^o arouse his courage, and to stimulate his zeal. 
They met according to previous agreement, the evening after 
the baptism of Apaecides, in the grove of Cybele, which we 
have before described. 

“ A^ the next solemn consultation of the oracle,” said Olin- 
thus, as he proceeded in the warmth of his address, “ advance 
yourself io the railing, proclaim aloud to the people the deception 
they endure invite them to enter, to be themselves the witness 
of the gross but artful mechanism of imposture thou hast de- 
scribed to me. Fear not — the Lord, who protected Daniel, shall 
protect thee ; we, the community of Christians, will be amongst 
the crowd ; we wiL urge on the shrinking ; and in the first flush 
of the popular .ndignation and shame, I myself, upon those 
very altars, wih plant the palm-branch typical of the Gospel 
— and to my tongue shall descend th^ rushing Spirit of the 
living God.” 

Heated and excited as he was, this suggestion was not un- 
pleasing to Apaecides. He was rejoicea at so early an oppor- 
tunity of distinguishing h.'' faith In this new sect, and to his 
holier feelings were added thoL vindictive loathing at the 
imposition h3 had himself suffered, nd a desire to avenge it 
In that anguine and elastic overbound of obstacles (the rashness 
iKC;ssar . to dl undertak ventuious and lofty actions^ 


224 


THE LAST DA YS OF POM PE n. 


neither Olinthus nor the proselyte perceived the impediments 
to the success of their scheme, which might be found in the rev- 
erent superstition of the people themselves, who would probably 
be loath, before the sacred altars of the great Egyptian goddess, 
to believe even the testimony of her priest against her power. 

Apaecides then assented to this proposal with a readiness 
which dedghted Olinthus. They parted with the understand- 
ing that Olinthus should confer with the more important of his 
Christian brethren on his great enterprise, should receive their 
advice and the assurances of their support on the eventful day. 
It so chanced that one of the festivals of Isis was to be held 
on the second day after this conference. The festival prof- 
fered a ready occasion for the design. They appointed to meet 
once more on the next evening at the same spot ; and in that 
meeting were finally to be settled the order and details of the 
disclosure for the following day. 

It happened that the latter part of this conference had been 
held near the sacellum, or small chapel, which I have described 
in the early part of this work , and so soon as the forms of the 
Christian and the priest had disappeared from the grove, a dark 
and ungainly figur^ emerged from behind the chapel. 

“ I have tracked you with some effect, my brother flamen,^ 
soliloquized the eavesdropper ; “ you, the priest of Isis, have 
not for mere idle discussion conferred with this gloomy Chris- 
tian. Alasi tha" I could not hear all your precious plot: 
enough ! I nnd, at least, that you meditate revealing the sacred 
mysteries, and that :o-morrow you meet again at this place to plan 
the how and the when. May Osiris sharpen my ears then to 
detect the whole of your unheard-of audacity ! When I have 
learned more, I must confer at once witn Arbaces. We will 
frustrate y^'u, my friends, deep as you think yourselves. At 
present, my breast is a locked treasury of your secret.” 

Thus muttering, Calenus, for it was he, wrapped his cloak 
found him, and strode thoughtfully homeward. 


CHAPTER II. 

A classic host, cook, and kitchen.- -Apaecides seeks lone. — Their con^ 

versation. 

It was then the day for Diomed’s banquet to the most select 
Ox his friends. The graceful Giaucus, the beautiful lone, the 
official Pansa, the high-born Clodius, the immortal FuIk^us, the 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


225 


exquisite Lepidns, the epicurean Sallust, were not the only ho» 
orers of his festival. He expected, also, an invalid senator from 
Rome (a man of considerable repute and favor at court), and 
a great warrior from Herculaneum, who had fought with Titus 
against the jews, and having enriched himself prodigiously, in 
the wars, was always told by his friends that his country was 
eternally indebted to his disinterested exertions I The party, 
however, extended to a yet greater number: for althougn, 
critically speaking, it was, at one time, thought inelegant among 
the Romans to entertain less than three or more than nine at 
their banquets, yet this rule was easily disregarded by the os- 
tentatious. And we are told, indeed, in history, that one of the 
most splendid of these entertainers usually feasted a select 
party of three hundred. Diomed, however, more modest, con- 
tented himself with doubling the number of the Muses. His 
party consisted of eighteen, no unfashionable number in the 
present day. 

It was the morning of Diomed’s banquet ; and Diomed him- 
self, though he greatly affected the gentleman and the scholar, 
retained enough of his mercantile experience to know that a 
master’s eye makes a ready servant. Accordingly, with his tunic 
ungirdled on his portly stomach, his easy slippers on his feet, a 
small wand in his hand, wherewith he now directed the gaze, 
and now corrected the back, of some duller menial, he went 
from chamber to chamber of his costly villa. 

He did not disdain even a visit to that sacred apartment 
in which the priests of the festival prepare their offerings. On 
entering the kitchen, his ears were agreeably stunned by the 
noise of dishes and pans, of oaths and commands. Small as 
this indispensable chamber seems to have been in all the 
houses of Pompeii, it was, nevertheless, usually fitted up with 
all that amazing variety of stoves and shapes, stew-pans and 
sauce-pans, cutters and moulds, without which a cook of spirit, 
no matter whether he be an ancient or a modern, declares it 
utterly impossible that he can give you anything to eat. And 
as fuel was then, as now, dear and scarce in those regions, 
great seems to have been the dexterity exercised in preparing 
as many things as possible with as little fire. An admirable 
contrivance of this nature may be still seen in the Neapolitan 
Museum, viz., a portable kitchen, about the size of a folio vol- 
ume, containing stoves for four dishes, and an apparatus for 
heating water or other beverages. 

Across the small kitchen flitted many forms which the quick 
eye of the master did not recognize. 

Oh 1 oh 1 ” £3:umbled he to himself, “ that cursed Congrio 


226 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEJL 


hath invited a whole legion of cooks to assist him. They won^ 
serve for nothing, and this is another item in the total of my 
day’s expenses. By Bacchus ! thrice lucky shah I be if the 
slaves do not help themselves to some of the drinking vessels : 
ready, alas, are their hands, capacious are their tunics. 
miser um / ’ 

The cooks, however, worked on, seemingly heedless of the 
Apparition of Diomed. 

“ Ho, Euclic, your egg-pan I What, is this the largest ? i 
only holds thirty-three eggs : in the houses / usually jerve, the 
smallest egg-pan holds fifty, if need be ! 

*‘The unconscionable rogue 1 ” thought Diomed; “he talks 
of eggs as if they were a sesterce a hundred ! ” 

“ By Mercury ! ” cried a pert little culinary disciple, scarce 
in his novitiate ; “ who ever saw such antique sweetmeat shapes 
as these ? — it is impossible to do credit to one’s art with 
such rude materials. Why, Sallust’s commonest sweetmeat 
shape represents the whole siege of Troy ; Hector and Paris, 
and Helen — with little Astyanax and the Wooden Horse into 
th? bargain ! ” 

“ Silence, fool ! ” said Congrio, the cook of the house, who 
seemed to leave the chief part of the battle to his allies. “ My 
master, Diomed, is not one of those expensive good-for-noughts» 
who must have the last fashion, cost what it will I ” 

“ Thou liest, base slave I ” cried Diomed, in a great pas* 
sion, — “ and thou costest me already enough to . have ruined 
Lucullus himself ! Come out of thy den, I want to talk to 
thee.” 

The slave, with a sly wink at his confederates, obeyed the 
command, 

“ Man of three letters,” * said Diomed, with his face of 
solemn anger, “ how didst thou dare to invite all those ras- 
cals into my house ? — I see thief written in every line of their 
faces.” 

“ Yet, I assure you, master, that they are men of most re- 
spectable character — the best cooks of the place ; it is a great 
favor to get them. But for tny sake ” 

“ Thy sake, unhappy Congrio ! ” interrupted Diomed ; “ and 
by what purloined moneys of mine, by what reserved filchings 
from marketings, by what goodly meats converted into grease, 
and sold in the suburbs, by what false charges for bronzes 
marred, and earthenware broken — hast thou been enabled to 
make them serve thee for thy sake ? ” 

* The common witty objurgation, from the ‘ nliteral word “ fur” (thk^ 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPELL 


227 

** Nay, master, do not impeach my honesty ! May the gods 
desert me if ” 

Swear not ! again interrupted the choleric Diomed, “ for 
then the gods will smite thee for a perjurer, and 1 shall lose 
my cook on the eve of dinner. But enough of this at present . 
keep a sharp eye on thy ill-favored assistants., and tell me 
no tales to-morrow of vases broken, and cups miraculously 
vanished, or thy whole back shall bo one pain. And hark 
thee ! thou knowest thou hast made me pay for those Phrygian 
attagens * enough, by Hercules, to have feasted a sober man for 
a year together — see that they be not one iota over-roasted. 
The last time, O Congrio, that I gave a banquet to my friends, 
when thy vanity did so boldly undertake the becoming appear- 
ance of a Melian cran^ — thou knowest it came up like a stone 
from .^tna — as if all the fires of Phlegethon had been scorch- 
ing out its juices. Be modest this time, Congrio — wary and 
modest Modesty is the nurse of great actions ; and in all 
other things, as in this, if thou wilt not spare thy master’s purse, 
at least consult thy master’s glory.” 

“ There shall not be such a ccena seen at Pompeii since 
the days of Hercules.” 

“ Softly, softly — thy cursed boasting again t But I say, 
Congrio, yon homununculus — ^yon pigmy assailant of my cranes 
— yon pert-tongued neophyte of the kitchen, was there aught 
but insolence on his tongue when he maligned the comeliness 
of my sweetmeat shapes t I would not be out of the fashion, 
Congrio.” 

“ It is but the custom of us cooks,” replied Congrio, 
gravely, “to undervalue our tools, in order to increase the 
effect of our art. The sweetmeat shape is a fair shape, and a 
lovely ; but I would recommend my master, at the first occasion, 
to purchase some new ones of a ” 

“ That will suffice ! ” exclaimed Diomed, who seemed re- 
solved never to allow his slave to finish his sentences. “Now, 
resume thy charge — shine — eclipse thyself. Let men envy 
Diomed his cook — let the slaves of Pompeii style thee Congrio 
the great ! Go ! yet stay — thou hast not spent all the moneys I 
gave thee for the marketing ? ” 

“^^///’ — alas, the nightingales’ tongues and the Roman 
iomacula^^ and the oysters rom Britain, and sundry other 

♦ The attagen of Phrygia or Ionia (the bird thus anglicised in the plural) 
was held in peculiar esteem by the Romans. “Attagen camis suavis 
simae.”— lib. ix. cap. 8, 9.) It was a little bigger than a partridge. 

t “ candiduli divina tomacula VorcxP— Juvenal, x. L 355. A rich and 

delicate species of sausage. 


228 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


things too numerous now to recite, are yet left unpaid for. But 
what matter ? every one trusts the Archimagiris * of Diomed 
the wealthy ! ” 

“ Oh, unconscionable prodigal ! — what waste I — what pro* 
fusion ! — I am ruined ! But go, hasten — inspect ! — taste !— 
perform ! — surpass thyself ! Let the Roman senator not 
despise the poor Pompeian. Away, slave — and remember, the 
Phrygian attagens.” 

The chief disappeared within his natural domain, and 
Diomed rolled back his portly presence to the more courtly 
chambers. All was to his liking — the flowers were fresh, the 
fountains played briskly, the mosaic pavements were as smooth 
as mirrors. 

“ Where is my daughter Julia ? ” he asked. 

“ At the bath.” 

“ Ah ! that reminds me ! — time wanes ! — and I must bathe 
also.” 

Our story returns to Apaecides. On awakening that day 
from the broken and feverish sleep which had followed his 
adoption of a faith so strikingly and sternly at variance with 
that in which his youth had been nurtured, the young priest 
could scarcely imagine that he was not yet in a dream ; he had 
crossed the fatal river— the past was henceforth to have no 
sympathy with the future ; the two words were distinct and 
separate, — that which had been, from that which was to be. 
To what a bold and adventurous enterprise he had pledged 
his life ! — to unveil the mysteries in which he had participated 
— to desecrate the altars he had served — to denounce the 
goddess whose ministering robe he wore ! Slowly he became 
sensible of the hatred and the horror he should provoke 
amongst the pious, even if successful , if frustrated in his 
daring attempt, what penalties might he not incur for an offence 
hitherto unheard of — for which no specific law, derived from 
experience, was prepared ; and which, for that very reason, 
precedents, dragged from the sharpest armory of obsolete and 
inapplicable legislation, would probably be distorted to meet ! 
His friends, — the sister of his youth, — could he expect justice, 
though he might receive compassion, from them ? This brave 
and heroic act would by their heathen eyes be regarded, 
perhaps, as a heinous apostasy — at the best, as a pitiable 
madness. 

He dared, he renounced, everything in this world, in the 
hope of securing that eternity in the next, which had so sud 
denly been revealed to him. While these thoughts on the one 

* Archimagiris was the loftv title of the chief cook. 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


229 


hand invaded his breast, on the other hand his pride, his 
courage, and his virtue, mingled with reminiscences of revenge 
for deceit, of indignant disgust at fraud, conspired to raise and 
to support him. 

The conflict was sharp and keen ; but his new feelings tri- 
umphed over his old : and a mighty argument in favor of wrest- 
ling with the sanctities of old opinions and hereditary forms 
might be found in the conquest over both, achieved by the 
humble priest. Had the early Christians been more controlled 
by “ the solemn plausibilities of custom ” — less of democrats in 
the pure and lofty acceptation of that perverted word, — Chris- 
tianity would have perished in its cradle ! 

As each priest in succession slept several nights together in 
the chambers of the temple, the term imposed on Apaecides was 
not yet completed ; and when he had risen from his couch, 
attired himself, as usual, in his robes, and left his narrow 
chamber, he found himself before the altars of the temple. 

In the exhaustion of his late emotions he had slept far into 
the morning, and the vertical sun already poured its fervid 
beams over the sacred place. 

“ Salve, Apascides ! ” said a voice, whose natural asperity 
was smoothed by long artifice into an almost displeasing soft- 
ness of tone. “ Thou art late abroad ; has the goddess revealed 
herself to thee in visions ? ” 

“ Could she reveal her true self to the people, Calenus, -how 
incenseless would be these altars ! ” 

“ That,” replied Calenus, “ may possibly be true ; but the 
deity is wise enough to hold commune with none but priests.” 

“ A time may come when she will be unveiled without her 
own acquiescence.” 

“ It is not likely : she has triumphed for countless ages. 
And that which has so long stood the test of time rarely suc- 
cumbs to the lust of novelty. But hark ye, young brother! 
these sayings are indiscreet.” 

“ It is not for thee to silence them,” replied Apaecides, 
haughtily. 

“So hot! — yet I will not quarrel with thee. Why, my 
Apaecides, has not the Egyptian convinced thee of the neces- 
sity of our dwelling together in unity ? Has he not convinced 
thee of the wisdom of deluding the people and enjoying our- 
selves .? If not, oh, brother ! he is not that great magician he 
is esteemed.” 

“ Thou, then, hast shared his lessons 1 ” said Apaecides, 
with a hollow smile. 

“ Ay ! but I stood less in need of them than thou. Natur#" 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


?30 

had already gifted me with the love of pleasure, and the da 
sire of gain and power. Long is the way that leads the volup- 
tuary to the severities of life ; but it is only one step from pleas- 
ant sin to sheltering hypocrisy. Beware the vengeance of the 
goddess, if the shortness of that step be disclosed ! ” 

“ Beware, thou, the hour when the tomb shall be rent, and 
the rottenness exposed,” replied Apaecides, solemnly. “ Vale / ” 

With these words he left the flamen to his meditations. 
When he got a few paces from the temple, he turned to look 
back. Calenus had already disappeared in the entry room of 
the priests, for it now approached the hour of that repast 
which, called prandium by the ancients, answers in point of 
date to the breakfast of the moderns. The white and grace- 
ful fane gleamed brightly in the sun. Upon the altars before 
it rose the incense and bloomed the garlands. The priest 
gazed long and wistfully upon the scene — it was the last time 
that it was ever beheld by him ! 

He then turned and pursued his way slowly towards the 
house of lone ; for before, possibly, the last tie that united 
them was cut in twain — before the uncertain peril of the next 
day was incurred, he was anxious to see his last surviving rela- 
tive, his fondest, as his earliest friend. 

He arrived at her house, and found her in the garden with 
Nydia. 

“ This is kind, Apaecides,” said lone, joyfully ; “ and how 
eagerly have I wished to see thee ! — what thanks do I not owe 
thee ? How churlish hast thou been to answer none of my 
letters — to abstain from coming hither to receive the expres- 
sions of my gratitude ! Oh, thou hast assisted to preserve thy 
sister from dishonor ! What, what can she say to thank thee, 
now thou art come at last ? ” 

“ My sweet lone, thou owest me no gradtude, for thy cause 
was mine. Let us avoid that subject, let us recur not to that 
impious man — how hateful to both of us ! I may have a 
speedy opportunity to teach the world the nature of his pre- 
tended wisdom and hypocritical severity. But let us sit down, 
my sister ; I am wearied with the heat of the sun ; let us sit in 
yonder shade, and, for a little while longer, be to each other 
what we have been.” 

Beneath a wide plane-tree, with the cistus and the arbutus 
clustering round them, the living fountain before, the green- 
sward beneath their feet ; the gay cicada, once so dear to 
Athens, rising merrily ever and anon amidst the grass ; the 
butterfly, beautiful emblem of the soul, dedicated to Psyche, 
and which has continued to furnish illustrations to the Chris* 


THE LAST DA OF POMPEII. 


231 


tian bard, rich in the glowing colors caught from Sicilian 
skies,* hovering about the sunny flowers, itself like a winged 
flower — in this spot, and this scene, the brother and the sister 
sat together for the last time on eaith. You may tread now on 
the same place ; but the garden is no more, the columns 
are shattered, the fountain has ceased to play. Let the trav- 
eller search amongst the ruins of Pompeii for the house of 
lone. Its remains are yet visible ; but I will not betray them 
to the gaze of commonplace tourists. He who is more sen- 
sitive than the herd will discover them easily : when he has 
done so, let him keep the secret. 

They sat down, and Nydia, glad to be alone, retired to the 
farther end of the garden. 

“ lone, my sister,” said the young convert, “ place your 
hand upon my brow ; let me feel your cool touch. Speak to 
me, too, for your gentle voice is like a breeze that hath fresh- 
ness as well as music. Speak to me, but forbear to bless me / 
Utter not one word of those forms of speech which our child' 
hood was taught to consider sacred ! ” 

“ Alas ! and what then shall I say ? Our language of affec- 
tion is so woven with that of worship, that the words grow 
chilled and trite if I banish from them allusion to our gods.” 

Our gods I'* murmured Apjecides, with a shudder, “ thou 
slightest my request already.” 

“ Shall I speak then to thee only of Isis ? ” 

The Evil Spirit ! No, rather be dumb forever, unless at 
least thou canst — but away, away this talk ! Not now will we 
dispute and cavil ; not now will we judge harshly of each other. 
Thou, regarding me as an apostate I and I all sorrow and shame 
for thee as an idolater. No, my sister, let us avoid such topics 
and such thoughts. In thy sweet presence a calm falls over my 
spirit. For a little while I forget. As I thus lay my temples 
on thy bosom, as I thus feel thy gentle arm embrace me, I think 
that we are children once more, and that the heaven smiles 
equally upon both. For oh ! if hereafter I escape, no matter 
what peril ; and it be permitted me to address thee on one 
sacred and awful subject ; should I find thine ear closed and 
thy heart hardened, what hope for myself could countervail the 
despair for thee t In thee, my sister, I behold a likeness made 
beautiful, made noble, of myself. Shall the mirror live forever, 
and the form itself be broken as the potter’s clay ? Ah, no — 
no— thou wilt listen to me yet ! Dost thou remember how 
we went into the fields by Baiae hand in hand together, to pluck 
the flowers of spring ? Even so, hand in hand, shall we enter 

♦ In Sicily are found, perhaps, the most beautiful varieties of the butterfly 


#32 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


the Eternal Garden, and crown ourselves with imperishable 
asphodel ? ” 

Wondering and bewildered bywords she could not compre- 
pend, but excited even to tears by the plaintiveness of their 
tone, lone listened to these outpourings of a full and oppressed 
heart. In truth, Apaecides himself was softened much beyond 
his ordinary mood, which to outward seeming was usually either 
sullen or impetuous. For the noblest desires are of a jealous 
nature — they engross, they absorb the soul, and often leave the 
splenetic humors stagnant and unheeded at the surface. Un- 
heeding the petty things around us, we are deemed morose : 
impatient at earthly interruption to the diviner dreams, we are 
thought irritable and churlish. For as there is no chimera 
vainer than the hope that one human heart shall find sympathy 
in another, so none ever interpret us with justice; and none, 
no, not our nearest and our dearest ties, forbear with us in. 
mercy I When we are dead and repentance comes too late, both 
friend and foe may wonder to think how little there was in us to 
forgive ! 

“ I will talk to thee then of our early years,” said lone. 
“ Shall yon blind girl sing to thee of the days of childhood ? 
Her voice is sweet and musical, and she hath a song on that 
theme which contains none of those allusions it pains thee to 
hear.” 

“ Dost thou remember the words, my sister ? ” asked Apae- 
cides. 

Methinks yes : for the tune, which is simple, fixed them on 
my memory.” 

“ Sing to me then thyself. My ear is not in unison with un- 
familiar voices ; and thine, lone, full of household associations, 
has ever been to me more sweet than all the hireling melodies 
of Lycia or of Crete. Sing to me ! ” 

lone beckoned to a slave that stood in the portico, and send- 
ing for her lute, sang, when it arrived, to a tender and simple 
air, the following verses : — 

A REGRET FOR CHILDHOOD. 


I. 

“ It is not that our earlier Heaven 
Escapes its April showers, 

Or that to chUdhood’s heart is giver 
snake amidst i^he 

Ah ! twined with gTxei, 
Each brightest leaf, 

'Hiat’s wreath’d us by the Hours I 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 




Young though we be, ine Past may sing 
The present feed its sorrow; 

But hope shines bright on every thing 
That waits us with the morrow. 


Like s.'.n-lit glades, 
The dimmest shades 
Some rosy beam can borrow. 


II. 

It is not that our later years 

Of cares are woven wholly. 

But smiles less swiftly chase the tears. 

And wounds are healed more slowly. 

And Memory’s vow 
To lost ones now, 

Makes joys too bright, unholy. 

And ever fled the Iris bow 

That smiled when clouds were o’er us. 

If storms should burst, uncheer’d we go, 

A drearier waste before us ; — 

And with the toys 
Of childish joys, 

We’ve broke the staff that bore us 1” 

Wisely and delicately had lone chosen that song, sad though 
its burthen seemed ; for when we are deeply mournful, discord- 
ant above all others is the voice of mirth : the fittest spell is 
that borrowed from melancholy itself, for dark thoughts can be 
softened down when they cannot be brightened ; and so they 
lose the precise and rigid outline of their truth, and their colors 
melt into the ideal. As the leech applies in remedy to the 
internal sore some outward irritation, which, by a gentler 
wound, draws away the venom of that which is more deadly, 
thus, in the rankling festers of the mind, our art is to divert to 
a milder sadness on the surface the pain that gnaweth at the 
core. And so with Apaecides ; yielding to the influence of the 
silver voice that reminded him of the past, and told but of half 
the sorrow born to the present, he forgot his more immediate 
and fiery sources of anxious thought. He spent hours in mak- 
ing lone alternately sing to, and converse with, him ; and when 
he rose to leave her, it was with a calmed and lulled mind. 

“ lone,” said he, as he pressed her hand, “ should you hear 
my name blackened and maligned, will you credit the as- 
persion } ” 

“ Never, my brother, never ! ” 

“ Dost thou not imagine, according to thy belief, that the 
evil-doer is punished hereafter, and the good rewarded ? ” 

“ Can vou doubt it ? ** 


•34 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


“ Dost thou think, then, that he who is truly good should 
sacrifice every selfish interest in his zeal for virtue ? ’’ 

“ He who doth so is the equal of the gods.” 

“And thou believest that, according to the purity and 
courage with which he thus acts, shall be his portion of bliss 
beyond the grave } ” 

“ So we are taught to hope.” 

“ Kiss me, my sister. One question more. — Thou art to 
be wedded to Glaucus ; perchance that marriage may separate 
us more hopelessly — but not of this speak I now , — thou art to 
be married to Giaucus, — dost thou love him ? Nay, my sister, 
answer me by words.” 

“ Yes ! ” murmured lone, blushing. 

“ Dost thou feel that, for his sake thou couldst renounce 
pride, brave dishonor, and incur death ? I have heard that 
when women really love, it is to that excess.” 

“ My brother, ail this could I do for Glaucus, and feel that 
it were not a sacrifice. There is no sacrifice to those who love, 
in v/hat is borne for the one we love.” 

“ Enough ! shall women feel thus for man, and man feel less 
devotion to his God ? ” 

He spoke no more. His whole countenance seemed instinct 
and inspired with a divine life , his chest swelled proudly , his 
eye glowed : on his forehead was writ the majesty of a man 
who can dare be noble ! He turned to meet the eyes of lone — > 
earnest, wistful, fearful ; — he kissed her fondly, strained her 
warmly to his breast, and in a moment more he had left the 
house. 

Long did lone remain in the same place, mute and thought- 
ful. The maidens again and again came to warn her of the 
deepening noon, and her engagement to Diomed’s binquet. 
At length she woke from her reverie, and prepared, not with 
the pride of beauty, but listless and melancholy, for the festival ; 
one thought alone reconciled her to the promised visit — she 
should meet Glaucus — she could confide to him her alarm and 
uneasiness for her brother. 


CHAPTER III. 

A fashionable party and a dinner k la mode in Pompeii 

Meanwhile Sallust and Glaucus were slowly strolling 
towards the house of Diomed. Despite the habits of his life, 
Sallust was not devoid of many estimable qualities. He would 


THE LAST DA YS OP POMPEII. 


23S 


have been an active friend, a useful citizen — in short an excel- 
lent man, if he had not taken it into his head to be a philoso- 
pher. Brought up in the schools in which Roman plagiarism 
worshipped the echo of Grecian wisdom, he had imbued him- 
self with those doctrines by which the later Epicureans corrupted 
the simple maxims of their great master. He gave himself 
altogether up to pleasure, and imagined there was no sage like 
a boon companion. Still, however, he had a considerable degree 
of learning, wit, and good-nature ; and the hearty frankness of 
his very vices seemed like virtue itself beside the utter corrup- 
tion of Clodius and the prostrate effeminacy of Lepidus ; and 
therefore Glaucus liked him the be »t of his companions ; and 
he, in turn, appreciating the nobler qualities of the Athenian, 
loved him almost as much as a cold muraena, or a bowl of the 
best Falernian. 

“This is a vulgar old fellow, this Diomed,” said Sallust; 
“ but he has some good qualities — in his cellar ! ” 

“ And some charming ones — in his daughter.” 

“ True, Glaucus : but you are not much moved by them, 
methinks. I fancy Clodius is desirous to be your successor.” 

“ He is welcome. — At the banquet of Julia’s beauty, no guest, 
be sure, is considered a musca.” * 

“You are sev e: but she has, indeed, something of the 
Corinthian about her — they will be well-matched, after all I 
What good-natured fellows we are, to associate with that gam- 
bling good-for-nought I ” 

“ Pleasure unites strange varieties,” answered Glaucus. “ He 
amuses me ” 

“ And flatters ; — but then he pays himself well 1 He pow- 
ders his praise with gold-dust.” 

“ You often hint that he plays unfairly — think you so really ? ” 

“ My dear Glaucus, a Roman noble has his dignity to keep 
up — dignity is very expensive — Clodius must cheat like a 
scoundrel, in order to live like a gentleman.” 

“ Ha -la ! — well, of late I have renounced the dice. Ah I 
Sallust, \ ^hen 1 am wedded to lone, I trust I may yet redeem 
a youth :.f follies. Wc are both born for better things than 
those in «hich we sympathize now — born to render our wor- 
ship in nobler tempies than the sty of Epicurus.” 

“ Alas ! returned Sallust, in rather a melancholy tone, “ what 
do we know more than this, — life is short — beyond the grave 
all is dark < There is no wisdom like that which says ‘ enjoy.’ ” 

“ By B5 >cc.'us 1 I doubt sometimes it we do enjoy the utmost 
of which life is capable.” 

* Unwelcome and uninvited guests were called muscae or 


23 $ THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 

“ I am a moderate man/’ returned Sallust, “ and do not ask 
‘ the utmost.’ We are like malefactors, and intoxicate our 
selves with wine and myrrh, as we stand on the brink of death; 
but, if we did not do so, the abyss would look very disagreeable. 
I own that I was inclined to be gloomy until I took so heartily 
to drinking — that is a new life, my Glaucus.” 

“ Yes ! but it brings us next morning to a new death.” 

“ Why, the next morning is unpleasant, I own ; but then, if 
it were not so, one would never be inclined to read. I study 
betimes — because, by the gods ! I am generally unfit for any- 
thing else till noon.” 

“ Fie, Scythian ! ” 

Pshaw ! the fate of Pentheus to him who denies Bacchus.” 

“ Well, Sallust, with all your faults, you are the best profli- 
gate I ever met ; and verily, if I were in danger of life, you are 
3ie only man in all Italy who would stretch out a finger to save 
me.” 

“ Perhaps I should not, if it were in the middle of supper. 
But, in truth, we Italians are fearfully selfish.” 

“ So are all men who are not free,” said Glaucus, with a 
sigh. “ Freedom alone makes men sacrifice to each other.” 

“ Freedom, then, must be a very fatiguing thing to an Epi- 
curean, ' answered Sallust. But here we are at our host’s.” 

As Diomed’s villa is one of the most considerable in point 
of size of any yet discovered at Pompeii, and is, moreover built 
much according to the specific instructions for a suburban villa 
laio down by the Roman architect, it may not be uninteresting 
briefly to describe the plan of the apartments through which our 
visitors passed. 

They entered, then, by the same small vestibule at which 
we have before been presented to the aged Medon, and passed 
at once into a colonnade, technically termed the peristyle ; for 
the main difference between the suburban villa and the town 
mansion consisted in placing, in the first, the said colonnade 
in exactly the same place as that which in the towrt mansion 
was occupied by the atrium. In the centre of the peristyle was 
an open court, which contained the impluvium. 

From this peristyle descended a staircase to the offices ; 
another narrow passage on the opposite side communicated 
with a garden ; various small apartments surrounded the col- 
onnade, appropriated probably to country visitors. Another 
door to the left on entering communicated with a small triangu- 
lar portico, which belonged to the baths ; and behind was the 
wardrobe, in which were kept the vests of the holiday suits of 
the slaves, and, perhaps, of the master. Seventeen centuries 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


237 


afterwards were found those relics of ancient finery calcined 
and crumbling ; kept longer, alas 1 than their thrifty lord fore- 
saw. 

Return we to the peristyle, and endeavor now to present to 
the reader a coup-d'ml of the whole suite of apartments, which 
immediately stretched before the steps of the visitors. 

Let him then first imagine the columns of the portico hung 
with festoons of flowers ; the columns themselves in the lower 
part painted red, and the walls around glowing with various 
frescoes ; then, looking beyond a curtain, three parts drawn 
aside, the eye caught the tablinum or saloon (which was closed 
at will by glazed doors, now slid back into the walls). On 
either side of this tablinum, were small rooms, one of which 
was a kind of cabinet of gems : and these apartments, as well 
as the tablinum, communicated with a long gallery, which 
opened at either end upon terraces ; and between the terraces, 
and communicating with the central part of the gallery, was a 
hall, in which the banquet was that day prepared. All these 
apartments, though almost on a level with the street, were one 
story above the garden ; and the terraces communicating with 
the gallery were continued into corridors, raised above the 
pillars, which, to the right and left, skirted the garden below. 

Beneath, and on a level with the garden, ran the apartments 
we have already described as chiefly appropriated to Julia. 

In the gallery, then, just mentioned, Diomed received his 
guest. 

The merchant affected greatly the man of letters, and there- 
fore, he also affected a passion for everything Greek ; he paid 
particular attention to Glaucus. 

“ You will see, my friend,” said he, with a wave of his hand, 
“ that I am a little classical here — a little Cecropian — eh ? 
The hall in which we shall sup is borrowed from the Greeks. 
It is an CEcus Cyzicene. Noble Sallust, they have not, I am 
told, the sort of apartment in Rome.” 

“ Oh ! ” replied Sallust, with a half-smile ; “ you Pompeians 
combine all that is most eligible in Greece and in Rome : may 
you, Diomed, combine the viands as well as the architecture ! ” 

“ You shall see — you shall see, my Sallust,” replied the 
merchant. “ We have a taste at Pompeii, and we have also 
money.” 

“ They are two excellent things,” replied Sallust '* But, 
behold, the lady Julia ! ” 

The main difference, as I have before remarked, in the man- 
ner of life observed among the Athenians and Romans, and 
that, with the first, the modest woman rarely or never took part 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


238 

in entertainments ; with the latter, they were the common oma» 
ments of the banquet ; but when they were present at the feast 
il usually terminated at an early hour. 

Magnificently robed in white, interwoven with pearls and 
threads of gold, the handsome Julia entered the apartment. 

Scarcely had she received the salutation of the two guests ere 
Pansa and his wife, Lepidus, Clodius, and the Roman senator, 
entered almost simultaneously ; then came the widow Fulvia ; 
then the poet Fulvius, like to the widow in name if in nothing 
else ; the warrior from Herculaneum, accompanied by his 
umbra, next stalked in ; afterwards, the less eminent of the 
guests. lone yet tarried. 

It was the mode among the courteous ancients to flatter 
whenever it was in their power ; accordingly it was a sign of ill- 
breeding to seat themselves immediately on entering the house 
of their host After performing the salutation, which was 
usually accomplished by the same cordial shake of the right 
hand which we ourselves retain, and sometimes, by the yet more 
familiar embrace, they spent several minutes in surveying the 
apartment, and admiring the bronzes, the pictures, or the fur- 
niture, with which it was adorned — a mode very impolite ac- 
cording to our refined English notions, which place good-breed- 
ing in indifference. We would not for the world express much 
admiration of another man’s house, for fear it should be thought 
we had never seen anything so fine before ! 

A beautiful statue this of Bacchus ! ” said the Roman 
senator. 

“ A mere trifle ! ” replied Diomed. 

** What charming paintings ! ” said Fulvia. 

** Mere trifles ! ” answered the owner. 

" Exquisite candelabra ! ” cried the warrior. 

“ Exquisite 1 ” echoed his umbra. 

“ Trifles ! trifles ! ” reiterated the merchant 

Meanwhile, Glaucus found himself by one of the windows 
of the gallery, which communicated with the terraces, and the 
fair Julia by his side. 

‘‘Is It an Athenian virtue, Glaucus,” said the merchants 
daughter. “ to chun those whom we once sought ” 

“ Fair Julia — no ! ” 

“ Yet, methinks, it is one of the qualities of Glaucus.” 

“Glaucus never shuns a friend !"' replied the Greek, vflth 
some emphasis on the last word. 

“ May Julia rank among the number of his friends ? ” 

“ If would be an honor to the emperor to find a friend in 
one so lovely.” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


239 


** You evade my question,” returned the enamored Julia. 
• But tell me, is it true that you admire the Neapolitan lone ? ” 
Does not beauty constrain our admiration ? ” 

“ Ah ! subtle Greek, still do you fly the meaning of my 

words. But say, shall Julia be indeed your friend ? ” 

“ If she will favor me blessed be the gods ! The day in 

which I am thus honored shall be ever marked in white.” 

“ Yet even while you speak, your eye is restless — your color 
comes and goes — you move away involuntarily — you are im- 
patient to join lone! ” 

For at that moment lone had entered, and Glaucus had in- 
deed betrayed the emotion noticed by the jealous beauty. 

“ Can admiration to one woman make me unworthy the 
friendship of another? Sanction not so, O Julia, the libels of 
the poets on your sex I ” 

“ Well, you are right — or I will learn to think so. Glau- 
cus, yet one moment ! You are to wed lone ; is it not so? ” 

“ If the Fates permit, such is my blessed hope.” 

“ Accept, then, from me, in token of our new friendship, 
a present for your bride. Nay, it is the custom of friends, you 
know, always to present to bride and bridegroom some such 
little marks of their esteem and favoring wishes.” 

“ Julia I I cannot refuse any token of friendship from one like 
you. I will accept the gift as an omen from Fortune herself.” 

“ Then, after the feast, when the guests retire, you will de- 
scend with me to my apartment, and receive it from my hands. 
Remember !” said Julia, as she joined the wife of Pansa, and 
left Glaucus to seek lone. 

The widow Fulvia and the spouse of the aedile were en- 
gaged in high and grave discussion. 

“ O Fulvia I I assure you that the last account from Rome 
declares that the frizzling mode of dressing the hair is growing 
antiquated ; they only now wear it built up in a tower, like 
Julia’s, or arranged as a helmet — the GaUrian fashion, like 
mine, you see : it has a fine effect, I think. I assure you, Ves- 
pius [Vespius was the name of the Herculaneum hero] admires 
it greatly.” 

“ And nobody wears the hair like yon Neapolitan, in the 
Greek way.” 

“ What, parted in front, with the knot behind ? Oh, no ; 
how ridiculous it is I it reminds one of the statue of Diana f 
Yet this lone is handsome, eh ? ” 

“ So the men say ; but then she is rich : she is to marry the 
Athenian — I wish her joy. He will not be long faithful, I 
suspect ; those foreigners are very faithless.” 


240 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


“ Oh, Julia ! ” said Fulvia, as the merchant's daughtd 
joined them ; “ have you seen the tiger yet ? ” 

No ! ” 

“ Why, all the ladies have been to see him. He is so hand 
some ! ’* 

“ I hope we shall find some criminal or other for him and 
the lion,” replied Julia. “ Your husband [turning to Pansa's 
wife] is not so active as he should be in this matter.” 

“Why, really, the laws are too mild,” replied the dame ot 
the helmet. “ There are so few offences to which the punish* 
ment of the arena can be awarded ; and then, too, the gladia- 
tors are growing effeminate ! The stoutest bestiarii declare they 
are willing enough to fight a boar or a bull ; but as for a lion 
or a tiger, they think the game too much in earnest.” 

“ They are worthy of a mitre,”* replied Julia, in disdain. 

“ Oh ! have you seen the new house of Fulvius, the deaf 
poet ? ” said Pansa’s wife. 

“ No ; is it handsome ? ” 

“ Very ! — such good taste. But they say, my dear, that 
he has such improper pictures ! He won’t show them to the 
women : how ill-bred ! ” 

“ Those poets are always odd,” said the widow. “ But he 
is an interesting man ; what pretty verses he writes ! We im- 
prove very much in poetry ; it is impossible to read the old 
stuff now.” 

“ I declare I am of your opinion,” returned the lady of the 
helmet. “There is so much more force and energy in the 
modern school.” 

The warrior sauntered up to the ladies. 

“ It reconciles me to peace,” said he, “when I see such faces.” 

“ Oh ! you heroes are ever flatterers,” returned Fulvia, 
hastening to appropriate the compliment specially to herself. 

“ By this chain, which I received from the emperor’s own 
hand,” replied the warrior, playing with a short chain which 
hung round the reck like a collar, instead of descending to the 
breast, according to the fashion of the peaceful — “ By this chain, 
you wrc ng me ! I am a blunt man — a soldier should be so.” 

“ How do you find the ladies of Pompeii generally ? ” said 
Julia. 

“ By Venus, most beautiful ! They favor me a little, it is 
true, and that inclines my eyes to double their charms.” 

“ We love a warrior,” said the wife of Pansa. 

“ I see it : by Hercules ! it is even disagreeable to be too 

* Mitres were worn sometimes by men, and considered a great mark erf 
effeminacy. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


241 


celebrated in these cities. At Herculaneum they climb the 
roof of my atrium to catch a glimpse of me through the com- 
piuvium ; the admiration of one’s citizens is pleasant at first, 
but burthensome afterwards.’" 

“True, true, O Vespius!” cried the poet, joining the 
group : “ I find it so myself.” 

“ You ! ” said the stately warrior, scanning the small form 
of the poet with ineffable disdain. “ In what legion have you 
served } ” 

“You may see my spoils, my exuviae, in the forum itself,’* 
returned the poet, with a significant glance at the women. “ I 
have been among the tent-companions, the contuburnales of 
the great Mantuan himself.” 

“ I know no general from Mantua,” said the warrior, 
gravely. “ What campaign have you served ? ” 

“ That of Helicon.” 

“ I never heard of it.” 

“ Nay, Vespius, he does but joke,” said Julia, laughing. 

“ Joke ! By Mars, am I a man to be joked ! ” 

“ Yes ; Mars himself was in love with the mother of jokes,” 
said the poet, a little alarmed. “ Know, then, O Vespius, that 
I am the poet Fulvius. It is I who make warriors immortal ! ** 

“ The gods forbid ! ” whispered Sallust to Julia. “ If Ves- 
pius were made immortal, what a specimen of tiresome brag- 
gadocio would be transmitted to posterity ! ” 

The soldier looked puzzled ; when, to the infinite relief of 
himself and his companions, the signal for the feast was given. 

As we have already witnessed at the house of Glaucus the 
ordinary routine of a Pompeian entertainment, the reader is 
spared any second detail of the courses, and the manner in 
which they were introduced. 

Diomed, who was rather ceremonious, had appointed a 
nomenclator, or appointer of places, to each guest. 

The reader understands that the festive board was com- 
posed of three tables ; one at the centre, and one at each wing. 
It was only at the outer side of these tables that the guests re- 
clined; the inner space was left untenanted, for the greater 
convenience of the waiters or ministri. The extreme corner of 
one of the wings was appropriated to Julia as the lady of the 
feast ; that next her, to Diomed. At one corner of the centre 
table was placed the aedile ; at the opposite corner, the Roman 
senator — these were the posts of honor. The other guests 
were arranged, so that the young (gentleman or lady) should sit 
next each other, and the more advanced in years be similarly 
matched. An agreeable provision enough, but which must 


142 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


often have offended those who wished to be thought still young 

The chair of lone was next to the couch of Glaucus.* The 
seats were veneered with tortoise-shell, and covered with quilts 
stuffed with feathers, and ornamented with costly embroideries. 
The modern ornaments of epergne or plateau were supplied by 
images of the gods, wrought in bronze, ivory, and silver. The 
sacred salt-cellar and the familiar Lares were not forgotten. 
Over the table and the seats, a rich canopy was suspended 
from the ceiling. At each corner of the table were lofty 
candelabras — for though it was early noon, the room was 
darkened — while from tripods, placed in different parts of the 
room, distilled the odor of myrrh and frankincense ; and upon 
the abacus, or sideboard, large vases and various ornaments 
of silver were arranged, much with the same ostentation (but 
•:vith more than the same taste) that we find displayed at a 
modern feast. 

The custom of grace was invariably supplied by that of 
libations to the gods ; and Vesta, as queen of the household 
gods, usually received first that graceful homage. 

This ceremony being performed, the slaves showered 
flowers upon the couches and the floor, and crowned each guest 
with rosy garlands, intricately woven with ribbons, tied by the 
rind of the linden-tree, and each intermingled with the ivy and 
the amethyst — supposed preventives against the effect of wine; 
the wreaths of the women only were exempted from these 
leaves, for it was not the fashion for them to drink wine in 
fublic. It was then that the president Diomed thought it ad- 
visable to institute a basiietis, or director of the feast — an im- 
portant office sometimes chosen by lot ; sometimes, as now by 
the master of the entertainment. 

Diomed was not a little puzzled as to his election. The 
invalid senator was too grave and too infirm for the proper ful- 
filment of his duty ; the aedile Pansa was adequate enough to 
the task ; but then, to choose the next in official rank to the 
senator, was an affront to the senator himself. While deliber- 
ating between the merits of the others, he caught the mirthful 
glance of Sallust, and by a sudden inspiration, named the 
jovial epicure to the rank of director, or arbiter bibendi. 

Sallust received the appointment with becoming humility. 

“ I shall be a merciful king,” said he, “ to those who drink 
deep ; to a recusant, Minos himself shall be less inexorable. 
Beware 1 ” 

* In formal parties the women sat in chairs — the men reclined. It wa« 
only in th 2 bosom of families th«t the same ease was granted to both sexe»-« 
the reason is obvious. 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


The slaves handed round basins of perfumed water, bj 
which lavation the feast commenced : and now the table groaned 
uxder the initiatory course. 

The conversation, at first desultory and scattered, allowed 
lone and Glaucus to carry on those sweet whispers, which are 
worth all the eloquence in the world. Julia watched them with 
flashing eyes. 

“ How soon shall her place be mine ! ” thought she. 

But Clodius, who sat in the centre table, so as to observe 
well the countenance of Julia, guessed her pique, and resolved 
to profit by it. He addressed her across the table in set 
phrases of gallantry ; and as he was of high birth and of a 
showy person, the vain Julia was not so much in love as to be 
insensible to his attentions. 

The slaves, in the interim, were constantly kept upon the 
alert by the vigilant Sallust, who chased one cup by another 
with a celerity which seemed as if he were resolved upon ex- 
hausting those capacious cellars which the reader may yet see 
beneath the house of Diomed. The worthy merchant began to 
repent his choice, as amphora after amphora was pierced and 
emptied. The slaves, all under the age of manhood (the young- 
est being about ten years old, — it was they who filled the wine, 
— the eldest, some five years older, mingled it with water), 
seemed to share in the zeal of Sallust ; and the face of Diomed 
began to glow as he watched the provoking complacency with 
which they seconded the exertions of the king of the feast. 

“ Pardon me, O senator ! ” said Sallust ; “ I see you flinch ; 
your purple hem cannot save you — drink ! 

** By the gods ! ” said the senator, coughing, ** my lungs are 
already on fire; you proceed with so miraculous a swiftness, 
that Phaeton himself was nothing to you, I am infirm, O 
pleasant Sallust : you must exonerate me.” 

“ Not I, by Vesta ! I am an impartial monarch — drink ! ” 

The poor senator, compelled by the laws of the table, was 
forced to comply. Alas ! every cup was bringing him nearer 
and nearer to the Stygian pool. 

Gently ! gently 1 my king,” groaned Diomed ; “ we already 
begin to ” 

“ Treason ! ” interrupted Sallust ; “ no stern Brutus here I — 
no interference with royalty 1 ” 

“ But our female guests ” 

“ Love a toper I Did not Ariadne dote upon Bacchus ? ” 

The feast proceeded ; the guests grew more talkative and 
noisy ; the dessert or last course was already on the table ; and 
the slaves bore round water with myrrh and hyssop for th# 


*44 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


finishing lavation. At the same time, a small circjlar :able 
that had been placed in the space opposite the guests suddenly, 
and as by magic, seemed to open in the centre, and cast up a 
fragrant shower, sprinkling the table and the guests ; while as 
it ceased the awning above them was drawn aside, and the 
guests perceived that a rope had been stretched across the 
ceiling, and that one of those nimble dancers, for which Pompeii 
was so celebrated, and whose descendants add so charming a 
grace to the festivities of Astley’s or Vauxhall, was now tread- 
ing his airy measures right over their heads. 

This apparition, removed but by a cord from one’s pericra- 
nium, and indulging the most vehement leaps, apparently with 
the intention of alighting upon that cerebral region, would 
probably be regarded with some terror by a party in May Fair,* 
but our Pompeiian revellers seemed to behold the spectacle 
with delighted curiosity, and applauded in proportion as the 
dancer appeared with the most difficulty to miss falling upon 
the head of whatever guest he particularly selected xo dance 
above. He paid the senator, indeed, the peculiar compliment 
of literally falling from the rope, and catching it again with his 
hand, just as the whole party imagined the skull of the Roman 
was as much fractured as ever that of the poet whom the eagle 
took for a tortoise. At length, to the great relief of at least 
lone, who had not much accustomed herself to this entertain- 
ment, the dancer suddenly paused as a strain of music wa.i 
heard from without. He danced again still more wildly ; the 
air changed, the dancer paused again ; no, it could not dissolve 
the charm which was suoposed to possess him ! He repre- 
sented one who by a strange disorder is com|-»elled to dance, 
and whom only a certain air of music can cure.* At length 
the musician seemed lo hit on the right tune ; the dancer gave 
one leap, swung himself down from the rope, alighted on the 
door, and vanished. 

One art now yielded to another ; and the musicians who 
were stationed without on the terrace struck up a soft and 
mellow air, to which were sung the following words, made 
almost indistinct by the barrier between, and the exceeding 
lowness of the minstrelsy: — 

FESTIVE MUSIC SHOULD BE LOW. 

“ Hark I through these flowers our music sends its greeting. 

To your loved halls, where Psilast shuns the day ; 

When the young god his Cretan nymph was meetag. 

He taught Pan’s rustic pipe this gliding lay 

*A dance still retained in Campam. 


t Bacchusi 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


24^ 


Soft as the dews of wine 
Shed in this banquet hour, 

The rich libation of Sound’s stream divine, 

O reverent harp, to Aphrodite pour 1 

Wild rings the trump o’er ranks to glory marching, 

Music’s sublimer burst for war are meet ; 

But sweet lips murmuring under wreaths o’erarching. 

Find the low whispers like their own most sweet. 

Steal, my lull’d music, steal 
1 ike woman’s half-heard tone, 

So that whoe’er shall hear, shall think to feel 
In thee the voice of lips that love his own.” 

I 

At the end of that song lone’s cheek blushed more deeply 
than before, and Glaucus had contrived, under cover of the 
table, to steal her hand. 

“ It is a pretty song,” said Fulvius, patronizingly. 

“ Ah 1 '')iyou would oblige us ! ” murmured the wife of Pansa. 

“Do you wish Fulvius to sing?” asked the king of the 
feast, who had just called on the assembly to drink the health 
of the Roman senator, a cup to each letter of his name. 

“ Can you ask ? ” said the matron, with a complimentary 
glance at the poet. 

Sallust snapped his fingers, and whispering the slave who 
came to learn his orders, the latter disappeared, and returned 
in a few moments with a small harp in one hand, and a branch 
of myrtle in the other. 

The slave approached the poet, and with a low reverence 
presented to him the harp. 

“ Alas ! I cannot play,” said the poet. 

“ Then you must sing to the myrtle. It is a Greek fashion : 
Diomed loves the Greeks — I love the Greeks — you love the 
Greeks — we all love the Greeks — and between you and me this 
is not the only thing we have stolen from them. However, I 
introduce this custom — I, the king : sing, subject, sing.” 

The poet, with a bashful smi’e took the myrtle in his 
hands, and after a short prelude sang as follows, in a pleas- 
ant and well-tuned voice : — 

THE CORONATION OF THE LOVES.* 


I. 

The merry Loves one holiday 
Were all at gambols madly; 

But loves too long can seldom play 
Without behaving sadly. 

* Suggested by two Pompeian pictures in the museum at Naples which 
represent a dove and a helmet enthroned by Cupids. 


246 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


They laugh’d, they toy’d, they romp’d aboa1« 
And then for change they all fell out. 

Fie, fie 1 how can they quarrel so ? 

My Lesbia — ah, for shame, love ! 
Methinks ’tis scarce an hour ago 
When we did just the same, love. 


II. 

The loves, ’tis thought, were free till then. 
They had no king or laws, dear ; 

But gods, like men, should subject be, 

Say all the ancient saws, dear. 

And so our crew resolved, for quiet. 

To choose a king to curb their riot. 

A kiss : ah ! what a grievous thing 
For both, methinks, ’twould be, child. 
If I should take some prudish king. 

And cease to be so free, child 1 

III. 

Among their toys a Casque they found. 

It was the helm of Ares ; 

With horrent plumes the crest was crown’d 
It frightened all the Lares. 

So fine a king was never known — 

They placed the helmet on the throne. 

My girl, since Valor wins the world. 
They choose a mighty master ; 

But thy sweet flag of smiles unfurl’d 
Would win the world much faster 1 


IV. 

The Casque soon found the Loves too wild 
A troop for him to school them ; 

For warriors know how one such child 
Has aye contrived to fool them. 

They plagued him so, that in despair 
He took a wife the plague to share. 

If kings themselves thus find the strife 
Of earth, unshared, severe, girl ; 

Why just to halves the ills of life. 
Come, take your partner here, girL 


V. 

Within that room the Bird of Love 
The- whole affair had eyed them ; 

The monarch hail’d the royal dove. 

And placed her by his side then ; 

W’hat mirth amidst the Loves was seen! 

Long live,’ they cried, ‘ our King and Queen I’ 
Ah I Lesbia, would that thrones were mine 
And crowns to deck that brow, love! 

And yet I know that heart of thine 
For me is throne enow, love I 


THE LASl DA YS OF POMPEII, 


247 


VI. 

The urchins hoped to tease the mate 
As thev had teased the hero; 

But when the Dove in judgment sate. 

They found her worse than Nero I 
Each look a frown, each word a law j 
The little subjects shook with awe. 

In thee I find the same deceit : — 

Too late, alas 1 a learner I 
For where a mien more gently sweet 
And where a tyrant sterner ? ” 

This song, which greatly suited the gay and lively fancy of 
the Pompeians, was received with considerable applause, and 
the widow insisted on crowning her namesake with the very 
branch of myrtle to which he had sung. It was easily twisted 
into a garland, and the immortal Fulvius was crowned amidst 
the clapping of hands and shouts of To triumphe / The song 
and the harp now circulated round the party, a new myrtle 
branch being handed about, stopping at each person who could 
be prevailed upon to sing.* 

The sun began now to decline, though the revellers, who had 
worn away several hours, perceived it not in their darkened 
chamber ; and the senator, who was tired, and the warrior, who 
had to return to Herculaneum, rising to depart, gave the signal 
for the general dispersion. “Tarry yet a moment, my friends,” 
said Diomed ; “ if you will go so soon, you must at least take a 
share in our concluding game.” 

So saying, he motioned to one of the ministri, and whisper- 
ing him, the slave went out, and presently returned with a small 
bowl containing various tablets carefully sealed, and, apparently, 
exactly similar. Each guest was to purchase one of those at 
the nominal price of the lowest piece of silver : and the sport of 
this lottery (which was the favorite diversion of Augustus, who 
introduced it) consisted in the inequality, and sometimes the 
incongruity, of the prizes, the nature and amount of which were 
specified within the tablets. For instance, the poet, with a wry 
face, drew one of his own poems (no physician ever less will- 
ingly swallowed his own draught) ; the warrior drew a case of 
bodkins, which gave rise to certain novel witticisms relative to 
Hercules and the distaff ; the widow Fulvia obtained a large 
drinking-cup ; Julia, a gentleman’s buckle ; and Lepidus, a lady’s 

* According to Plutarch lib. i.) it seems that the branch of 

myrtle or laurel was not carried round in order, but passed from the first 
pemon on one couch to the first on another, and then from the second oa 
the one to the second on the other, and so on. 


248 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


patch-box. The most appropriate lot was drawn by the gamble! 
Clodius, who reddened with anger on being presented a set 
of cogged dice.* A certain damp was thrown upon the gayety 
which these various lots created by an accident that was con- 
sidered ominous ; Glaucus drew the most valuable of all th^ 
prizes, a small marble statue of Fortune, of Grecian workman- 
ship : on handing it to him, the slave suffered it to diop, and it 
broke in pieces. 

A shiver went round the assembly, and each voice cried 
spontaneously on the gods to avert the omen. 

Glaucus alone, though perhaps as superstitious as the rest, 
affected to be unmoved. 

“ Sweet Neapolitan,” whispered he tenderly to lone, who 
had turned pale as the broken marble itself, “ I accept the omen. 
It signifies, that in obtaining thee. Fortune can give no more 
— she breaks her image when she blesses me with thine.^' 

In order to divert the impression which this incident had 
occasioned in an assembly which, considering the civilization 
of the guests, would seem miraculously superstitious, if at the 
present day in a country party we did not often see a lady grow 
hypochondriacal on leaving a room last of thirteen. Sallust 
now, crowning his cup with flowers, gave the health of their 
host. This was followed by a similar compliment to the em- 
peror ; and then, with a parting cup to Mercury to send them 
pleasant slumbers, they concluded the entertainment by a last 
libation, and broke up the party. 

Carriages and litters were little used in Pompeii, partly owing 
to the extreme narrowness of the streets, partly to the conven- 
ient smallness of the city. Most of the guests replacing their 
sandals, which they had put off in the banquet-room, and indu- 
ing their cloaks, left the house on foot, attended by their slaves. 

Meanwhile, having seen lone depart, Glaucus, turning to the 
staircase which led down to the rooms of Julia, was conducted 
by a slave to an apartment in which he found the merchant’s 
daughter already seated. 

“ Glaucus ! ” said she, looking down, I see that you really 
love lone — she is indeed beautiful.” 

Julia is charming enough to be generous,” replied the 
Greek. “Yes, I love lone; amidst all the youth who court 
you, may you have one worshipper as sincere.” 

“ I pray the gods to grant it ! See, Glaucus, these pearls 
are the present I destine to your bride: may Juno give her 
health to wear them ! ” 

* Several cogged dice were found in Pompeii Some of the virtues ma| 
be modem, but it is quite clear that all the vices are ancient. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


249 

So saying, she placed a case in his hand, containing a rovi? 
of pearls of some size and price. It was so much the custom 
for persons about to be married to receive these gifts, that 
Glaucus could have little scruple in accepting the necklace, 
though the gallant and proud Athenian lady inly resolved to 
requite the gift by one of thrice its value. Julia then stopping 
short his thanks, poured forth some wine into a small bowl. 

“ You have drank many toasts with my father,” said she, 
smiling, — “one now with me. Health and fortune to your 
bride ! ” 

She touched the cup with her lips and then presented it to 
Glaucus. The customary etiquette required that Glaucus 
should drain the whole contents ; he accordingly did so. Julia, 
unknowing the deceit which Nydia had practised upon her, 
watched him with sparkling eyes ; although the witch had told 
her that the effect might not be immediate, yet she sanguinely 
trusted to an expeditious operation in favor of her charms. 
She was disappointed when she found Glaucus coldly replace 
the cup, and converse with her in the same unmoved but gentle 
tone as before. And though she detained him as long as she 
decorously could do, no change took place in his manner. 

“ But to-morrow,” thought she, exultingly recovering her 
disappointment, — “ to-morrow, alas for Glaucus 1 ” 

Alas for him, indeed ! 


CHAPTER IV. 

The story halts for a moment at an episode. 

Restless and anxious, Apaecides consumed the day in 
wandering through the most sequestered walks in the vicinity 
of the city. The sun was slowly setting as he paused beside a 
lonely part of the Sarnus, ere yet it wound amidst the evidences 
of luxury and power. Only through openings in the woods and 
vines were caught glimpses of the white and gleaming city, in 
which was heard in the distance no din, no sound, nor “ busiest 
hum of men.” Amidst the green banks crept the lizard and 
the grasshopper, and here and there in the brake some solitary 
bird burst into sudden song, as suddenly stilled. There was 
deep calm around, but not the calm of night ; the air still 
breathed of the freshness and life of day ; the grass still moved 
to the stir of the insect horde ; and on the opposite bank the 
graceful and white capella passed browsing through the herb* 
age, and paused at the wave to drink. 


250 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


As Apaecides stood musingly gazing upon the waters, he 
heard beside him the low bark of a dog. 

Be still, poor friend,” said a voice at hand ; “ the stranger’s 
step harms not thy master.” The convert recognized the voice, 
and, turning, he beheld the old mysterious man whcm he had 
seen in the congregation of the Nazarenes. 

The old man was sitting upon a fragment of stone covered 
with ancient mosses ; beside him were his staff and scrip ; at 
his feet lay a small shaggy dog, the companion in how many a 
pilgrimage perilous and strange. 

The face of the old man was as balm to the excited spirit 
of the neophyte : he approached, and craving his blessing, sat 
down beside him. 

“ Thou art provided as for a journey, father,” said he : “ wilt 
thou leave us yet ? ” 

“ My son,” replied the old man, “ the days in store for me, 
on earth are few and scanty ; I employ them as becomes me 
travelling from place to place, comforting those whom God has 
gathered together in His name, and proclaiming the glory of 
His son, as testified to His servant.” 

“ Thou has looked, they tell me, on the face of Christ ? ” 

“ And the face revived me from the dead. Know, young 
proselyte to the true faith, that I am he of whom thou readest 
in the scroll of the Apostle. In the far Judea, and in the city 
of Nain, there dwelt a widow, humble of spirit and sad of heart ; 
for of all the ties of life one son alone wai spared to her. And 
she loved him with a melancholy love, for he was the likeness 
of the lost. And the son died. The reed on which she leaned 
was broken, the oil was dried up in the widow’s cruse. They 
bore the dead upon his bier ; and near the gate of the city, 
where the crowd were gathered, there came a silence over the 
sounds of woe, for the Son of God was passing by. The 
mother, who followed the bier, wept, — not noisily, but all who 
looked upon her saw that her heart was crushed. And the 
Lord pitied her, and he touched the bier, and said, ‘ I say 
UNTO THEE, Arise.’ And the dead man woke and looked 
upon the face of the Lord. Oh, that calm and solemn brow, 
that unutterable smile, that careworn and sorrowful face, 
lighted up with a God’s benignity — it chased away the shadows 
of the grave ! I rose, I spoke, I was living, and in my mother’s 
arms — yes, / am the dead revived ! The people shouted, the 
funeral horns rang forth merrily ; there was a cry, ‘ God has 
visited his people ! ’ I heard them not — I felt — I saw — nothing 
—but the face of the Redeemer ! ” 

The old man paused, deeply moved ; and the youth felt his 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


251 

blood creep, and his hair stir. He was in the presence of one 
who had known the Mystery of Death ! 

“Till that time,” renewed the widow’s son, “ I had been as 
other men : thoughtless, not abandoned ; taking no heed, but of 
the things of love and life ; nay, I had inclined to the gloomy 
faith of fhe earthly Sadducee ! But, raised from the dead, from 
awful and desert dreams that these lips never dare reveal — re- 
called upon earth, to testify the powers of Heaven — once more 
mortal, the witness of immortality ; I drew a new being from 
the grave. O faded — O lost Jerusalem ! — Him from whom came 
my life, I beheld adjudged to the agonized and parching death ! 
— Far in the mighty crowd, I saw the light rest and glimmer 
over the cross ; I heard the hooting mob, I cried aloud, I raved, 
I threatened — none heeded me — was lost in the whirl and 
the roar of thousands ! But even then, in my agony and His 
own, methought the glazing eye of the Son of man sought me 
out — His lip smiled, as when it conquered death— it hushed 
me, and I became calm. He who had defied the grave for 
another, — what was the grave to him ? The sun shone aslant 
the pale and powerful features, and then died away 1 Darkness 
fell over the earth ; how long it endured, I know not. A loud 
cry came through the gloom — a sharp and bitter cry ! — and all 
was silent. 

“ But who shall tell the terrors of the night ? I walked 
along the city — the earth reeled to and fro, and the houses 
trembled to their base — the living had deserted the streets, but 
not the Dead : through the gloom I saw them glide — the dim 
and ghastly shapes, in the cerements of the gjave, — with hor- 
ror, and woe, and warning on their unmoving lips and lightless 
eyes ! — they swept by me, as I passed — they glared upon me 
— I had been their brother ; and they bowed their heads in 
recognition ; they had risen to tell the living that the dead can 
rise ! ” 

Again the old man paused, and, when he resumed, it was in 
a calmer tone. 

“ From that night I resigned all earthly thought but that of 
serving Him. A preacher and a pilgrim, I have traversed the 
remotest corners of the earth, proclaiming His Divinity, and 
bringing new converts to His fold. I come as the wind, and 
as the wind depart ; sowing, as the wind sows, the seeds that 
enrich the world. 

“ Son, on earth we shall meet no more. Forget not this 
hour, — what are the pleasures and the pomps of life ? As the 
lamp shines, so life glitters for an hour ; but the soul’s light b 
the star that burns forever, in the heart of illimitable space.” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


252 

It was men that their conversation fell upon the genera! 
and sublime doctrines of immortality ; it soothed and elevated 
the young mind of the convert, which yet clung to many of the 
damps and shadows of that cell of faith which he had so lately 
left — it was the air of heaven breathing on the prisoner released 
at last. There was a strong and marked distinction between the 
Christianity of the old man and that of Olinthus ; that of the 
first was more soft, more gentle, more divine. The hard heroism 
of Olinthus had something in it fierce and intolerant — it was 
necessary to the part he was destined to play — it had in it more 
of the courage of the martyr than the charity of the saint. It 
aroused, it excited, it nerved, rather than subdued and softened. 
But the whole heart of that divine old man was bathed in love ; 
the smile of the Deity had burned away from it the leaven of 
earthlier and coarser passions, and left to the energy of the 
hero all the meekness of the child. 

“ And now,” said he, rising at length, as the sun’s last ray 
died in the west ; “ now, in the cool of twilight, I pursue my 
way towards the Imperial Rome. There yet dwell some holy 
men, who like me have beheld the face of Christ : and them 
would I see before I die.” 

“ But the night is chill for thine age, my father, and the way 
is long, and the robber haunts it ; rest thee till to-morrow.” 

“ Kind son, what is there in this scrip to tempt the robber ? 
And the Night and the Solitude ! — these make the ladder round 
which angels cluster, and beneath which my spirit can dream 
of God. Oh ! none can know what the pilgrim feels as he 
walks on his holy course ; nursing no fear, and dreading no 
danger — for God is with him ! He hears the winds murmur 
glad tidings : the woods sleep in the shadow of Almighty wings ; 
— the stars are the Scriptures of Heaven, the tokens of love, 
and the witnesses of immortality. Night is the Pilgrim’s day.” 
With these words the old man pressed Apaecides to his breast, 
and taking up his staff and scrip, the dog bounded cheerily 
before him, and with slow steps and downcast eyes he went 
his way. 

The convert stood watching his bended form, till the trees 
shut the last glimpse from his view ; and then, as the stars 
broke forth, he woke from the musings with a start, reminded 
of his appointment with Olinthus. 


THE LAST DA KS" OF POMPEII 


253 


CHAPTER V. 

The Philtre. — Its effect. 

When Glaucus arrived at his own home, he found Nydia 
seated under the portico of his garden. In fact, she had sought 
his house in the mere chance that he might return at an early 
hour : anxious, fearful, anticipative, she resolved upon seizing 
the earliest opportunity of availing herself of the love-charm, 
while at the same time she half hoped the opportunity might 
be deferred. 

It was then, in that fearful burning mood, her heart beating, 
her cheek flushing, that Nydia awaited the possibility of Glau- 
cus’s return before the night. He crossed the portico just as 
the first stars began to rise, and the heaven above had assumed 
its most purple robe. 

“ Ho, my child, wait you for me ? ’’ 

“ Nay, I have been tending the flowers, and did but linger 
a little while to rest myself.” 

“ It has been warm,” said Glaucus, placing himself also on 
one of the seats beneath the colonnade. 

“ Very.” 

“ Wilt thou summon Davus ? The wine 1 have drunk heats 
me, and I long for some cooling drink.” 

Here at once, suddenly and unexpectedly, the very oppor- 
tunity that Nydia awaited presented itself ; of himself, at his 
own free choice, he afforded to her that occasion. She breathed 
quick — “ I will prepare for you myself,” said she, ‘ the summer 
draught that lone loves — of honey and weak wine cooled in 
snow.” 

“ Thanks,” said the unconscious Glaucus. “ If lone love 
It, enough ; it would be grateful were it poison.” 

Nydia frowned, and then smiled ; she withdrew for a few 
moments, and returned with the cup containing the beverage. 
Glaucus took it from her hand. What would not Nydia have 
given then for one hour’s prerogative of sight, to have watched 
her hopes ripening to effect ; — to have seen the first dawn of 
the imagined love ; — to have worshipped with more than Per- 
sian adoration, the rising of that sun which her credulous sou! 
believed was to break upon her dreaxy night ! Far different, 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


* 54 - 

as she stood then and there, were the thoughts, the emotions 
of the blind girl, from those of the vain Pompeian under a simi^ 
lar suspense. In the last, what poor and frivolous passions 
have made up the daring whole ! What petty pique, what small 
revenge, what expectation of a paltry triumph, had swelled the 
attributes of that sentiment she dignified with the name of 
love ! but in the wild heart of the Thessalian all was pure, 
uncontrolled, unmodified passion ; — erring, unwomanly, frem 
zied, but debased by no elements of a more sordid feeling. 
Filled with love as with life itself, how could she resist the 
occasion of winning a love in return ! 

She leaned for support against the wall, and her face, before 
so flushed, was now white as snow, and with her delicate hands 
clasped convulsively together, her lips apart, her eyes on the 
ground, she waited the next words Glaucus should utter. 

Claucus had raised the cup to his lips, he had already 
drained about a fourth of its contents, when his eye suddenly 
glancing upon the face of Nydia, he was so forcibly struck by 
its alteration, by its intense, and painful, and strange expres- 
sion, that he paused abruptly, and still holding the cup near his 
lips, exclaimed — 

“ Why, Nydia ! Nydia ! I say, art thou ill or in pain ? Nay, 
thy face speaks for thee. What ails my poor child ? ” As he 
spoke, he put down the cup and rose from his seat to approach 
her, when a sudden pang shot coldly to his heart, and was fol- 
lowed by a wild, confused, dizzy sensation at the brain. The 
floor seemed to glide from under him — his feet seemed to move 
on air — a mighty and unearthly gladness rushed upon his spirit 
— he felt too buoyant for the earth — he longed for wings, nay, 
it seemed in the buoyancy of his new existence as if he pos- 
sessed them. He burst involuntarily into a loud and thrilling 
laugh. He clapped his hands — he bounded aloft — he was as 
a Pythoness inspired ; suddenly as it came this preternatural 
transport passed, though only partially, away. He now felt his 
blood rushing loudly and rapidly through his veins ; it seemed 
to swell, to exult, to leap along, as a stream that has burst its 
bounds, and hurries to the ocean. It throbbed in his ear with 
a mighty sound, he felt it mount to his brow, he felt the veins 
in the temples stretch and swell as if they could no longer con- 
tain the violent and increasing tide — then a kind of darkness 
fell over his eyes — darkness, but not entire ; for through the 
dim shade he saw the opposite walls glow out, and the figures 
painted thereon seemed, ghost-like, to creep and glide. What 
was most strange, he did not feel himself ill — he did not sink 
or quail beneath ^he dread frenzy that was gathering over 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


25S 


him. The novelty of the feelings seemed bright and vivid— 
he felt as if a younger health had been infused into his frame. 
He was gliding on to madness — and he knew it not ! 

Nydia had not answered his first question — she had nof 
been able to reply — his wild and fearful laugh had roused her 
from her passionate suspense: she could not see his fierce 
gesture — she could not mark his reeling and unsteady step as 
he oaced unconsciously to and fro ; but she heard the w’ords, 
broken, incoherent, insane, that gushed from his lips. She 
became terrified and appalled — she hastened to him, feeling 
with her arms until she touched his knees, and then falling 
on the ground she embraced them, weeping with terror and 
excitement. 

“ Oh, speak to me ! speak ! you do not hate me ? — speak, 
speak ! ” 

“ By the bright goddess, a beautiful land this Cyprus 1 
Ho ! how they fill us with wine instead of blood ! now they 
open the veins of the Faun yonder, to show how the tide within 
bubbles and sparkles. Come hither, jolly old god 1 thou ridest 
on a goat, eh ? — what long silky hair he has ! He is worth all 
the coursers of Parthia. But a word with thee — this wine of 
thine is too strong for us mortals. Oh ! beautiful 1 the boughs 
are at rest ! the green weaves of the forest have caught the 
Zephyr and drowned him 1 Not a breath stirs the leaves — and 
I view the Dreams sleeping with folded wings upon the mo- 
tionless elm ; and I look beyond, and I see a blue stream spar- 
kle in the silent noon ; a fountain — a fountain springing aloft I 
Ah ! my fount, thou wilt not put out the rays of my Grecian 
sun, though thou tryest ever so hard with thy nimble and silver 
arms. And now, what form steals yonder through the boughs ? 
she glides like a moonbeam ! — she has a garland of oak-leaves 
on her head. In her hand is a vase upturned, from which she 
pours pink and tiny shells, and sparkling water. Oh ! look on 
yon face ! Man never before saw its like. See ! we are alone ; 
only I and she in the wide forest. There is no smile upon 
her lips — she moves, grave and sweetly sad. Ha ! fly, it is a 
nymph! — it is one of the wildNapaeal* Whoever sees her 
becomes mad — fly ! see, she discovers me I ” 

“ Oh ! Glaucus ! Glaucus I do you not know me ? Rave not 
so wildly, or thou wilt kill me with a word 1 

A new change seemed now to operate upon the jarring and 
disordered mind of the unfortunate Athenian. He put his 
hands upon Nydia’s silken hair ; he smoothed the locks — he 
looked wistfully upon her face ana then, as in the broken chain 

* over b*lls and woods. 


256 THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 

of thought one or two links were yet unsevered, it seemed that 
her countenance brought its associations of lone ; and with 
that remembrance his madness became yet more powerful, and 
it was swayed and tinged by passion, as he burst forth, — 

“ I swear by Venus, by Diana, and by Juno, that though I 
have now the world on my shoulders, as my countryman Her- 
cules (ah, dull Rome ! whoever was truly great was of Greece ; 
why, you would be godless if it were not for us !) — I say, as my 
countryman Hercules had before me, I would let it fall into chaos 
for one smile from lone. Ah, Beautiful, — Adored,” he added, 
in a voice inexpressibly fond and plaintive, “ thou lovest me 
not. Thou art unkind to me. The Egyptian hath belied me to 
thee — thou knowest not what hours I have spent beneath thy 
casement — thou knowest not how I have outwatched the stars, 
thinking thou, my sun, wouldst rise at last, — and thou lovest 
me not, thou forsakest me ! Oh ! do not leave me now ! I 
feel that my life will not be long ; let me gaze on thee at least 
unto the last. I am of the bright land of thy fathers — I have 
trod the heights of Phyle — I have gathered the hyacinth and 
rose amidst the olive-groves of Ilyssus. Thou shouldst not 
desert me, for thy fathers were brothers to my own. And they 
say this land is lovely, and these climes serene, but I will bear 
thee with me — Ho 1 dark form, why risest thou like a cloud 
between me and mine ? Death sits calmly dread upon thy 
brow — on thy lip is the smile that slays : thy name is Orcus, 
but on earth men call thee Arbaces. See, I know thee 1 fly, 
dim shadow, thy spells avail not ! ” 

Glaucus 1 Giaucus ! ” murmured Nydia^ releasing her hold 
and falling, beneath the excitement of her dismay, remorse, and 
anguish, insensible on the floor. 

“ Who calls ? ” said he, in a loud voice. “ lone, it is she 1 
they have borne her off — we will save her — where is my stilus ? 
Ha, I have it I I come, lone, to thy rescue ! I come I I 
come ! ” 

So saying, the Athenian with one bound passed the portico, 
he traversed the house, and rushed with swift but vacillating 
steps, and muttering audibly to himself, down the star-lit 
streets. The direful potion burnt like fire in his veins, for its 
effect was made, perhaps, still more sudden from the wine he 
had drunk previously. Used to the excesses of nocturnal 
revellers, the citizens, with smiles and winks, gave way to his 
reeling steps ; they naturally imagined him under the influ- 
ence of the Bromian god, not vainly worshipped at Pompeii ; 
but they who looked twice upon his face started in a nameless 
fear, and the smile withered from their lips. He pas^d the 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


*57 

more populous streets ; and pursuing mechanically the way to 
lone’s house he traversed a more deserted quarter, and entered 
now the lonely grove of Cybele, in which Apaecides had held 
his interview with Olinthus. 


CHAPTER VI. 

A reunion of different actors — Streams that flowed apparently apart rush 
into one gulf. 

Impatient to learn whether the fell drug had yet been ad- 
ministered by Julia to his hated rival, and with what effect, 
Arbaces resolved, as the evening came on, to seek her house, 
and satisfy his suspense. It was customary, as I have before 
said, for men at that time to carry abroad with them the tablets 
and the stilus attached to their girdle ; and with the girdle they 
were put off when at home. In fact, under the appearance of a 
literary instrument, the Romans carried about with them in 
that same stilus a very sharp and formidable weapon. It was 
with his stilus * that Cassius stabbed Csesar in the senate- 
house. Taking, then, his girdle and his cloak, Arbaces left his 
house, supporting his steps, which were still somewhat feeble 
(though hope and vengeance had conspired greatly with his 
own medical science, which was profound, to restore his 
natural strength), by his long staff : Arbaces took his way to the 
villa of Diomed. 

And beautiful is the moonlight of the south! In those 
climes the day so quickly glides into the night, that twilight 
scarcely makes a bridge between them. One moment of darker 
purple in the sky — of a thousand rose-hues in the water — of 
shade half victorious over light ; and then burst forth at once 
the countless stars — the moon is up — night has resumed her 
reign. 

Brightly, then, and softly bright, fell the moonbeams over 
the antique grove consecrated to Cybele — the stately trees, 
whose date went beyond tradition, cast their long shadows 
over the soil, while through the openings in their boughs the 
stars shone, still and frequent. The whiteness of the small 
sacellum in the centre of the grove, amidst the dark foliage, had 
in it something abrupt and startling ; it recalled at once the 
purpose to which the wood was consecrated,— its holiness and 
solemnity. 

* From this stilus may be derived the stiletto of the Italians. 

la 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


258 

With a swift and stealthy pace, Calenus, gliding under the 
shade of the trees, reached the chapel, and gently putting back 
the boughs that completely closed around its rear, settled him 
self in his concealment ; a concealment so complete, what with 
the fane in front and the trees behind, that no unsuspicious 
passenger could possibly have detected him. Again, all was ap- 
parently solitary in the grove ; afar off you heard faintly the 
voices of some noisy revellers, or the music that played cheerily 
to the groups that then, as now in those climates, during the 
nights of summer, lingered in the streets, and enjoyed, in the 
fresh air and the liquid moonlight, a milder day. 

From the height on which the grove was placed, you saw 
through the intervals of the trees the broad and purple sea. 
rippling in the distance, the white villas of Stabiae in the curv- 
ing shore, and the dim Lectiarian hills mingling with tne deli- 
cious sky. Presently the tall figure of Arbaces, in his way to the 
house of Diomed, entered the extreme end of the grove ; and 
at the same instant Apcecides, also bound to his appointment 
with Olinthus, crossed the Egyptian’s path. 

“ Hem ! Apaecides,” said Arbaces, recognizing the priest at 
a glance ; when last we met, you were my foe. I have wished 
since then to see you, for I would have you still my pupil and 
my friend.” 

Apaecides started at the voice of the Egyptian ; and halting 
abruptly, gazed upon him with a countenance full of contending, 
bitter and scornful emotions. 

** Villain and impostor ! ” said he at length ; thou hast re- 
covered then from the jaws of the grave I But think not again 
to weave around me thy guilty meshes. — Retiarius^ I am armed 
against thee ! ” 

“ Hush ! ” said Arbaces, in a very low voice — but his pride, 
which in that descendant of kings was great, betrayed the 
wound it received from the insulting epithets of the priest in 
the quiver of his lip and the flush of his tawny brow. “ Hush ! 
more low ! thou mayst be overheard, and if other ears than 
mine had drunk those sounds — why ” 

“ Dost thou threaten I — what if the whole city had heard 
me ? ” 

“ The mat'es of my ancestors would not have suffered me to 
forgive thee. But, hold, and hear me. Thou art enraged that 
I would have offered violence to thy sister. — Nay, peace, peace, 
but one instant, I pray thee. Thou art right ; it was the frenzy 
of passion and of jealousy — I have repented bitterly of my mad- 
ness. Forgive me ; I, who never implored pardon of living man, 
beseech thee now to forgive me. Nay, I will atone the insult 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


259 

—I ask thy sister in marriage ; — start not, consider, — ^what is 
the alliance of yon holiday Greek compared to mine ? Wealtib 
unbounded — birth that in its fair antiquity leaves your Greek 
and Roman names the things of yesterday — science — but that 
thou knowest I Give me thy sister, and my whole life shall atone 
a moment’s error.” 

“ Egyptian, were even I to consent, my sister loathes the very 
air thou breathest : but I have my own wrongs to forgive — I 
may pardon thee that thou hast made me a tool to thy deceits, 
but never that thou hast seduced me to become the abettor of 
thy vices — a — ^polluted and a perjured man. Tremble ! — even 
now I prepare the hour in which thou and thy false gods shall 
be unveiled. Thy lewd and Circ^an life shall be dragged to 
day, — thy mumming oracles disclosed — the fane of the idol Isis 
shall be a by-word and a scorn — the name of Arbaces a mark 
for the hisses of execration ! Tremble ! ” 

The flush on the Eg 3 ^ptian’s brow was succeeded by a livid 
paleness. He looked behind, before, around, to feel assured 
that none were by ; and then he fixed his dark and dilating 
eye on the priest, with such a gaze of wrath and menace, that 
one, perhaps, less supported than Apaecides by the fervent dar- 
ing of a divine zeal, could not have faced with unflinching look 
tnat lowering aspect. As it was, however, the young convert 
met it unmoved, and returned it with an eye of proud defiance, 

‘‘ Apaecides,” said the Eg)q)tian, in a tremulous and inward 
tone, “ beware ! What is it thou wouldst meditate Speakest 
thou — reflect, pause before thou repliest — from the hasty in- 
fluences of wrath, as yet divining no settled purpose, or from 
some fixed design \ ” 

“ I speak from the inspiration of the True God, whose ser- 
vant I now am,” answered the Christian, boldly ; “ and in the 
knowledge that by His grace human courage has already fixed 
the date of thy hypocrisy and thy demon’s worship ; ere thrice 
the sun has dawned, thou wilt know all ! Dark sorcerer, tremble, 
and fare veil 1 ” 

All the fierce and lurid passions which he inherited from his 
nation and his clime, at all times but ill concealed beneath the 
blandness of craft and the coldness of philosophy, were released 
in the breast of the Egyptian. Rapidly one thought chased 
another: he saw befoiehim an obstinate barrier to even a lawful 
alliance with lone — the fellow-champion of Glaucus in the strug- 
gle which had baffled his designs — the reviler of his name — the 
threatened desecrator of the goddess he served while he dis- 
believed — the avowed and approaching revealer of his own 
impostures and vices. His love, his repute, nay, his very life, 


26o 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


might be in danger — the day and hour seemed even to have 
been fixed for some design against him. He knew by the words 
of the convert that Apaecides had adopted the Christian faith r 
he knew the indomitable zeal which led on the proselytes of 
that creed. Such was his enemy ; he grasped his stili.s, — that 
enemy was in his power ! They were now before the chapel ; 
one hasty glance once more he cast around ; he saw none near, 

« — silence and solitude alike tempted him. 

“ Die, then, in thy rashness ! ” he muttered : “ away, obstacle 
to my rushing fates ! 

And just as the young Christian had turned to depart, 
Arbaces raised his hand high over the left shoulder of Apae- 
cides, and plunged his sharp weapon twice into his breast. 

Apaecides fell to the ground pierced to the heart, — he fell 
mute, w ithout even a groan, at the very base of the sacred chapel. 

Arbaces gazed upon him for a moment with the fierce ani- 
mal joy of conquest over a foe. But presently the full sense of 
the danger to which he was exposed flashed upon him ; he wiped 
his weapon carefully in the long grass, and with the very gar- 
ments of his victim, drew his cloak round him, and was about to 
depart, when he saw, coming up the path, right before him, the 
figure of a young man, whose steps reeled and vacillated strangely 
as he advanced : the quiet moonlight streamed full upon his 
face, which seemed, by the whitening ray, colorless as marble. 
The Egyptian recognized the face and form of Glaucus. The 
unfortunate and benighted Greek was chanting a disconnected 
and mad song, composed from snatches of hymns and sacred 
odes, all jarringly woven together. 

“ Ha ! ” thought the Egyptian, instantaneously divining his 
state and its terrible cause ; “ so, then, the hell-draught works, 
and destiny hath sent thee hither to crush two of my foes at 
once ! ” 

Quickly, even ere this thought occurred to him, he had 
withdrawn on one side of the chapel, and concealed himself 
amongst the boughs ; from that lurking-place he watched, as 
a tiger in his lair, the advance of his second victim. He noted 
the wandering and restless fire in the bright and beautiful eyes 
of the Athenian ; the convulsions that distorted his statue-like 
features and writhed his hueless lip. He saw that the Greek 
was utterly deprived of reason. Nevertheless, as Glaucus 
came up to the dead body of Apaecides, from which the dark 
red stream flowed slowly over the grass, so strange and ghastly 
a spectacle could not fail to arrest him, benighted and erring 
as was his glimmering sense. He paused, placed his hand to 
Iws brow, as if to collect himself, and then saying, — 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


261 


“ What, ho ! Endymion, sleepest thou so soundly ? What 
has the moon said to thee ? Thou makest me jealous ; it is 
time to wake,” — he stooped down with the intention of lifting 
up the body. 

Forgetting — ^feeling not — his own debility, the Egyptian 
sprang from his hiding-place, and as the Greek bent, struck him 
forcibly to the ground, over the very body of the Christian ; 
then, raising his powerful voice to its loudest pitch, he 
shouted — 

“ Ho, citizens — oh ! help me ! — run hither — hither ! — A 
murder — a murder before your very fane ! Help, or the mur- 
derer escapes ! ” As he spoke, he placed his foot on the breast 
of Glaucus : an idle and superfluous precaution ; for the potion 
operating with the fall, the Greek lay there motionless and 
insensible, save that now and then his lips gave vent to some 
vague and raving sounds. 

As he there stood awaiting the coming of those his voice 
still continued to summon, perhaps some remorse, some com- 
punctious visitings — ^for despite his crimes he was human — 
haunted the breast of the Egyptian ; the defenceless state of 
Glaucus — his wandering words — his shattered reason, smote 
him even more than the death of Apascides, and he said, half 
audibly, to himself — 

“ Poor clay ? — poor human reason ! where is the soul now t 
I could spare thee, O my rival — rival nevermore ! But destiny 
must be obeyed — my safety demands thy sacrifice.” With that, 
as if to drown compunction, he shouted yet more loudly ; and 
drawing from the girdle of Glaucus the stilus it contained, he 
steeped it in the blood of the murdered man, and laid it beside 
the corpse. 

And now, fast and breathless, several of the citizens came 
thronging to the place, some with torches, which the moon ren- 
dered unnecessary, but which flared red and tremulously against 
the darkness of the trees : they surrounded the spot. 

“ Lift up yon corpse,” said the Egyptian, “ and guard well 
the murderer.” 

They raised the body, and great was their horror and sacred 
indignation to discover in that lifeless clay a priest of the adored 
and venerable Isis ; but still greater, perhaps, was their sur- 
prise, when they found the accused in the brilliant and admired 
Athenian. 

“ Glaucus ! ” cried the bystanders with one accord ; “ is it 
even credible ? ” 

“ I would sooner,” whispered one man to his neighbor. “ be* 
lieve it to be the Egyptian hinwelf.” 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 




Here a centurion thrust himself into the gathering crow^i 
with an air of authority. 

How ! blood spilt ! who is the murderer ? ” 

The bystanders pointed to Glaucus. 

“ He ! — by Mars, he has rather the air of being the victim I 
Who accuses him ? ” 

“ ly” said Arbaces, drawing himself up haughtily ; and the 
jewels which adorned his dress flashing in the eyes of the sol- 
dier, instantly convinced that worthy warrior of the witness’s 
respectability. 

“ Pardon me — your name ^ ” said he. 

“ Arbaces ; it is well known, methinks, in Pompeii. Pass- 
ing through the grove, I beheld before me the Greek and the 
priest in earnest conversation. I was struck by the reeling 
motions of the first, his violent gestures, and the loudness of his 
voice ; he seemed to me either drunk or mad. Suddenly I saw 
him raise his stilus — I darted forward — too late to arrest the 
blow. He had twice stabbed his victim, and was bending over 
him, when in my horror and indignation, I struck the murderer 
to the ground. He fell without a struggle, which makes me yet 
more suspect that he was not altogether in his senses when the 
crime was perpetrated ; for, recently recovered from a severe 
illness, my blow was comparatively feeble, and the flame of 
Glaucus, as you see, is strong and youthful.” 

“ His eyes are open now — his lips move,” said the soldier. 
** Speak, prisoner, what sayest thou ' the charge ? ” 

“ The charge — ha — ha ! Why, it was merrily done ; when 
the old hag set her serpent at me, and Hecate stood by laugh- 
ing from ear to ear — what could I do ? But I am ill — I faint 
— the serpent’s fiery tongue hath bitten me. Bear me to bed, 
and send for your physician ; old ^sculapius himself will attend 
me, if you let .am know that I am Greek. Oh, mercy — mercy 
— I burn ! — marrow and brain, I burn ! ” 

And, with a thrilling and fierce groan, the Athenian fell 
back in the arms of the bystanders. 

He raves,” said the officer, cv aipassionately ; “and in his 
delirium he has struck the priest. Ilath any one present seen 
him to-day ? ” 

“ I,” said one of the spectators, “ beheld him in the morn- 
ing. He passed my shop and accosted me. He seemed well 
and sane as the stoutest of us.” 

“ And I saw him half an hour ago,” said another, “ passing 
up the streets, muttering to himself with strange gestures, and 
Just as the Egyptian has described. ” 

“ A corroboration of the witness ! it must be too true. He 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


263 

must at all events to the praetor ; a pity, so young and so rich 1 
But the crime is dreadful ; a priest of Isis, in his very robes, 
too, and at the base itself of our most ancient chapel ! ” 

At these words the crowd were reminded more forcibly, 
than in their excitement and curiosity they had yet been, of 
the heinousness of the sacrilege. They shuddered in pious 
horror. 

“No wonder the earth has quaked,” said one, “when it 
held such a monster ! ” 

“ Away with him to prison — away I ” cried they all. 

And one solitary voice was heard shrilly and joyously above 
the rest : — 

“ The beasts will not want a gladiator now, 

“ Ho, ho I for the merry, merry show ! ” 

It was the voice of the young woman whose conversation 
with M ^don has been repeated. 

“ True — true — it chances in season for the games 1 ” cried 
several ; and at that thought all pity for the accused seemed 
vanished. His youth — his beauty, but fitted him better for 
the purpose of the arena. 

“Bring hither some planks — or if at hand, a litter — to 
bear the dead,” said Arbaces ; “ a priest of Isis ought scarcely 
to be carried to his temple by vulgar hands, like a butchered 
gladiator.” 

At this the bystanders reverently laid the corpse of Apse- 
cides on the ground, with the face upwards ; and some of 
tliem went in search of some contrivance to bear the body, 
untouched by the profane. 

It was just at that time that the crowd gave way to right 
and left as a sturdy form forced itself through, and Olinthus 
the Christian stood immediately confronting the Egyptian. 
But his eyes, at first, only rested with inexpressible grief and 
horror on that gory side and upturned face, on which the 
agony of violent death yet lingered. 

“ Murdered ! ” he said. “ Is it thy zeal that has brought 
thee to this ? Have they detected thy noble purpose, and by 
death prevented their own shame ? ” 

He turned his head abruptly, and his eyes fell full on the 
solemn features of the Egyptian. 

As he looked, you might see in his face, and even the 
slight shiver of his frame, the repugnance and aversion which 
the Christian felt for one whom he knew to be so dangerous 
and so criminal. It was indeed the gaze of the bird upon the 
basilisk — so silent was it and sc prolonged. But shalang of! 


264 the last da YS of POMPEII, 

the sudden chill that had crept over him, Olinthus extended 
his right arm towards Arbaces, and said, in a deep and loud 
voice : — 

“ Murder hath been done upon this corpse ! Where is the 
murderer ? Stand forth, Egyptian ! For, as the Lord liveth, 
I believe thou art the man ! ” 

An anxious and perturbed change might for one moment 
be detected on the dusky features of Arbaces ; but it gave 
way to the frowning expression of indignation and scorn, as, 
awed and arrested by the suddenness and vehemence of the 
charge, the spectators pressed nearer and nearer upon the two 
more prominent actors. 

“1 know,” said Arbaces, proudly, “who is my accuser, 
and I guess wherefore he thus arraigns me. Men and citi- 
zens, know this man for the most bitter of the Nazarenes, if 
that or Christians be their proper name ! What marvel that 
in his malignity he dares accuse even an Eg}T)tian of the mur- 
der of a priest of Egypt ! ” 

“ I know him ! I know the dog ! ” shouted several voices. 
“It is Olinthus the Christian — or rather the Atheist; — he 
denies the gods ! ” 

“ Peace, brethren,” said Olinthus, with dignity, “ and hear 
me ! This murdered priest of Isis before his death embraced 
the Christian faith — he revealed to me the dark sins, the sor- 
ceries^, of yon Egyptian — the mummeries and delusions of the 
fane of Isis. He was about to declare them publicly. He^ a 
stranger, unoffending, without enemies ! who should shed his 
blood but one of those who feared his witness ? Who might 
fear that testimony the most ? — Arbaces, the Egyptian 1 ” 

“ You hear him ! ” said Arbaces, “ you hear him ! he bias® 
phemes ! Ask him if he believes in Isis ? ” 

“ Do I believe in an evil demon t ” returned Olinthus, 
boldly. 

A groan and shudder passed through the assembly: Noth- 
ing daunted, for prepared at every time for peril, and in the 
present excitement losing all prudence, the Christian con- 
tinued — 

“ Back, idolaters ! this clay is not for your vain and polluting 
rites — it is to us — to the followers of Christ, that the last offices 
due to a Christian belong. I claim this dust in the name of the 
great Creator who has recalled the spirit ! ” 

With so solemn and commanding a voice and aspect the 
Christian spoke these words, that even the crowd forbore to utter 
aloud the execration of fear and hatred which in their hearts 
they conceived. And never, perhaps, since Lucifer and the Arch 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


265 

angel contended for the body of the mighty Lawgiver, was there 
a more striking subject for the painter’s genius than that scene 
exhibited. 1 he dark trees — the stately fane — the moon full on 
the corpse of the deceased — the torches tossing wildly to and 
fro in ^e rear — the various faces of the motley audience — the 
msensible form of the Athenian, supported, in the distance ; and 
in the foreground, and above all, the forms of Arbaces and the 
Christian ; the first drawn to its full height, far taller than the 
herd around ; his arms folded, his brow knit, his eyes fixed, his 
lip slightly curled in defiance and disdain. The last bearing, 
on a brow worn and furrowed, the majesty of an equal command 
— the features stem, yet frank — the aspect bold, yet open — tne 
quiet dignity of the whole form impressed with an ineffable 
earnestness, hushed, as it were, in a solemn sympathy with the 
awe he himself had created. His left hand pointing to the 
corpse — his right hand raised to heaven. 

The centurion pressed forward again. 

“ In the first place, hast thou, Olinthus, or whatever be thy 
name, any proof of the charge thou hast made against Arbaces, 
beyond thy vague suspicions? ” 

Olinthus remained silent — the Egyptian laughed contempt- 
uously. 

Dost thou claim the body of a priest of Isis as one of the 
Nazarene or Christian sect ? 

“I do.-” 

Swear then by yon fane, yon statue of Cybele, by yon most 
ancient sacellum in Pompeii, that the dead man embraced your 
faith ! ” 

" Vain man ! I disown your idols J I abhor your temples J 
How can I swear by Cybele then ? ” 

“ Away, away with the atheist ! away ! the earth will swallow 
us, if we suffer these blasphemers in a sacred grove — away with 
him to death ! ” 

“ To the beasts / ” added a female voice in the centre of the 
crowd ; “ we shall have one a-piece now for the lion and ti^er / ” 

“If, O Nazarene, thou disbelievest in Cybele, which of our 
gods dost thou own?” resumed the soldier, unmoired by the 
cries around. 

“ None ! ” 

“ Hark to him 1 hark I ” cried the crowd. 

“ O vain and blind 1 ” continued the Christian, raising his 
voice ; “ can you believe in images of wood and stone ? Do 
you imagine that they have eyes to see, or ears to hear, or 
hands to help ye ? Is yon mute vhing carved in man’s art a 
goddess \ — ^hath it made mankind ? — alas 1 by mankind it was 


s66 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


made. Lol convince yourselves of its nothingness — of yoia 
folly.'' 

And as he spoke, he strode across to the fane, and ere any 
of the byst mders were aware of his purpose, he, in his compas- 
sion or his zeal; struck the statue of wood from its pedestal. 

“ See ! cri< -d he, “ your goddess cannot avenge herself. Is 
this a thing to vorship ? ” 

Further words were denied to him : so gross and daring a 
sacrilege — of one, too, of the most sacred of their places of wor- 
ship — filled even the most lukewarm with rage and horror. 
With one accord the crowd rushed upon him. seized, and but 
for the interference of the centurion, they would have torn him 
to pieces. 

’^ ''ce ! " said the soldier, authoritatively, — “ refer we this 
rfisoTent blasphemer to the proper tribunal — time has been 
already wasted. Bear we botn the culprits to the magistrates; 
place the body of the priest on the litter — carry it to his own 
home.” 

At this moment a priest of Isis stepped forward. I claim 
these remains, according to the custom of the priesthood.” 

“ The flamen be obeyed,” said the centurion. How is the 
murderer ? ” 

“ Were his crimes less, I could pity him. On ! ” 

A’^baces, as he turned, met the eye of that priest of Isis— 
fl was Calenus ; and something there was in that glance, so 
significant and sinister, tliat the Egyptian muttered to him- 
self — 

“ Could he have witnessed the deed ? ” 

A girl darted from the crowd, and gazed hard on the face of 
Olinthus. “ By Jupiter^ a stout knave / / say^ we shall have a 
man for the tiger now ; one for each beast I ” 

“ Ho ! ” shouted the mob : “ a man for the lion, and another 
for the tiger ! What luck ? lo Paean I ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

In which the reaaer le .ms the condition of Glaucus. — Friendship tested.—* 
Enmity softened. — Love the same ; — because the one loving b blind. 

The night was somewhat advanced, and tBe gay lounging- 
places of the Pompeians were still crowded. You might 
observe in the countenances of the various idlers a more 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


269 

earnest expression than usual. They talked in large knots and 
groups, as if they sought by numbers to divide the half-painful, 
naif-pleasurable anxiety which belonged to the subject on which 
they conversed : — it was a subject of life and death. 

A young man passed briskly by the graceful portico of the 
Temple of Fortune — so briskly, indeed, that he came with no 
slight force full against the rotund and comely form of that 
respectable citizen Diomed, who was retiring homeward to his 
suburban villa. 

“ Holloa ! '' groaned the merchant, recovering with some 
difficulty his equilibrium ; “ have you no eyes ? or do you think 
I have no feeling? By Jupiter I you have well-nigh driven out 
the divine particle ; such another shock, and my soul will be in 
Hades!” 

“ Ah, Diomed 1 is it you ? forgive my inadvertence. I was 
absorbed in thinking of the reverses of life. Our poor friend, 
Glaucus, eh ! who could have guessed it ! ” 

“ Well, but tell me, Clodius, is he really to be tried by the 
Senate ? ” 

“ Yes : they say the crime is of so extraordinary a nature, 
that the senate itself must adjudge it ; and so the lictors are 
to induct him* formally.” 

He has been accused publicly, then ? ” 

** To be sure ; where have you been, not to hear that ? ” 

^ Why, I have only just returned from Neapolis, whither I 
went on business the very mornir.g after his crime ; — so shock- 
ing, and at my house the same night that it happened ! ” 

“ There is no doubt of his guilt,” said Clodius, shrugging 
his shoulders ; “ and as these crimes take precedence of afl 
little undignified peccadiloes, they will hasten to finish the 
sentence previous to the games.” 

“ The games I Good gods 1 ” replied Diomed, with a slight 
shudder; ‘‘can they adjudge him to the beasts? — so young, 
so rich ! ” 

“ True ; but, then, he is a Greek. Had he been a Roman, 
ft would have been a thousand pities. These foreigners can 
be borne with in their prosperity ; but in adversity we must not 
forget that they are in reality slaves. However, we of the 
upper classes are always tender-hearted ; and he would cer- 
tainly get off tolerably well, if he were left to us : for, between 
ourselves, what is a paltry priest of Isis I — what Isis herself ? 
But the common people are superstitious ; they clamor for the 
blood of the sacrilegious one. It is dangerous not to give wjqf 
to public opinion.” 

* Pirn £;p^ iL II, 12 ; V. 4. 13. 


268 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


** And the blasphemer — ^the Christian, or Nazarene, or what 
ever else he be called ? ” 

“ Oh, poor dog ! if he will sacrifice to Cybele, or Isis, he will 
be pardoned — if not, the tiger has him. At least, so I suppose j 
but the trial will decide. We talk while the urn’s still empty. 
And the Greek may yet escape the deadly © * of his own alpha- 
bet. But enough of this gloomy subject. How is the fair 
Julia?” 

“Well, I fancy.” 

“ Commend me to her. But hark ! the door yonder creaks 
on its hinges ; it is the house of the praetor. Who comes 
forth ! By Pollux ! it is the Egyptian ! What can he want 
with our official friend I ” 

“ Some conference touching the murder, doubtless,” replied 
Diomed ; “ but what was supposed to be the inducement to the 
crime ? Glaucus was to have married the priest’s sister.” 

“ Yes : some say Apaecides refused the alliance. It might 
have been a sudden quarrel. Glaucus was evidently drunk ; — 
nay, so much as to have been quite insensible when taken up, 
and I hear is still delirious — whether with wine, terror, remorse, 
the Furies, or the Bacchanals, I cannot say.” 

“ Poor fellow ! — he has good counsel ? ” 

“ The best — Caius Pollio, an eloquent fellow enough. 
Pollio has been hiring all the poor gentlemen and well-born 
spendthrifts of Pompeii to dress shabbily and sneak about, 
swearing their friendship to Glaucus (who would not have 
spoken to them to be made emperor ! — I will do him justice, 
he was a gentleman in his choice of acquaintance), and trying 
to melt the stony citizens into pity. But it will not do ; Isis 
is micditily popular just at this moment.” 

xTciid, by the bye, I have some merchandise at Alexan- 
dria. Yes, Isis ought to be protected.” 

“True; so farewell, old gentleman: we shall meet soon; 
if not, we must have a friendly bet at the amphitheatre. All 
my calculations are confounded by this cursed misfortune of 
Glaucus ! He had bet on Lydon the gladiator ; I must make 
up my tablets elsewhere. Fa/e/” 

Leaving the less active Diomed to regain his villa, Clodius 
strode on, humming a Greek air, and perfuming the night 
with the odors that steamed from his snowy garments and 
flowing locks. 

“ If,” thought he, “ Glaucus feed the lion, Julia will no 
longer have a person to love better than me ; she will cer* 

* 0, the initial of ddvaros (death), the condemning letter of the Greeks 
^ C was of the Romans. 


THE LAST DA KS OF POMPEIL 


269 

tainly dote on me ; — and so, I suppose, I must marry. By 
the gods ! the twelve lines begin to fail — men look suspiciously 
at ray hand when it rattles the dice. That infernal Sallust 
insinuates cheating ; and if it be discovered that the ivory is 
cogged, why farewell to the merry supper and the perfumed 
billet ; — Clodius is undone ! Better marry, then, while I may, 
renounce gaming, and push my fortune (or rather the gentle 
Julia’s) at the imperial court.” 

Thus muttering the schemes of his ambition, if by that 
high name the projects of Clodius may be called, the gamester 
found himself suddenly accosted ; he turned and beheld the 
dark brow of Arbaces. 

“ Hail, noble Clodius ! pardon my interruption ; and in 
form me, I pray you, which is the house of Sallust ? ” 

*‘It is but a few yards hence, wise Arbaces. But does 
Sallust entertain to-night ? ” 

“ I know not,” answered the Egyptian ; “ nor am I, per 
haps, one of those whom he would seek as a boon companion. 
But thou knowest that his house holds the person of Glaucus, 
the murderer.” 

“ Ay ! he, good-hearted epicure, believes in the Greek’s 
innocence ! You remind me that he has become his surety, 
and, therefore, till the trial, is responsible for his appearance.* 
Well, Sallust’s house is better than a prison, especially that 
wretched hole in the forum. But for what can you seek Glau- 
cus t ” 

“ Why, noble Clodius, if we could save him from execution, 
it would be well. The condemnation of theiich is a blow upon 
society itself. I should like to confer with him — for I hear he 
has recovered his senses — and ascertain the motives of his 
crime ; they may be so extenuating as to plead in his defence.” 

“ You are benevolent, Arbaces.” 

Benevolence is the duty of one who aspires to wisdom,” 
replied the Egyptian, modestly. “Which way lies Sallust’s 
mansion ? ” 

“ I will show you,” said Clodius, “ if you will suffer me to 
accompany you a few steps. But, pray what has become of 
the poor girl who was to have wed the Athenian — the sister 
of the murdered priest ? ” 

“Alas! well-nigh insane. Sometimes she utters impreca- 
tions on the murderer — then suddenly stops short — then cries, 
‘ But why curse ? Oh, my brother 1 Glaucus was not thy 
murderer— never will I believe it ! ’ Then she begins again, 

* If a criminal could obtain surety (called vades in capital offences), he wai 
not compelled to lie in prison till after sentence. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


*70 

and again stops short, and mutters awfully to herself, ‘ Vet il 
it were indeed he ? ’ ” 

“ Unfortunate lone ! ’* 

“ But it is well for her that those solemn cares to the dead 
which religion enjoins have hitherto greatly absorbed her atten- 
tion from Glaucus and herself : and, in the dimness of her 
senses, she scarcely seems aware that Glaucus is apprehended 
and on the eve of trial. When the funeral rites due to Apae^ 
cides are performed, her apprehension will return ; and then 
I fear me much that her friends will be revolted by seeing her 
run to succor and aid the murderer of her brother 1 

“ Such scandal should be prevented.” 

“ I trust I have taken precautions to that effect. I am her 
lawful guardian, and have just succeeded in obtaining permis- 
sion to escort her, after the funeral of Apaecides, to my own 
house ; there, please the gods ! she will be secure.” 

“ You have done well, sage Arbaces. And now, yonder is 
the house of Sallust. The gods keep you ! Yet, hark you, 
Arbaces — why so gloomy and unsocial ? Men say you can be 
gay — why not let me initiate you into the pleasures of Pom- 
peii ? I flatter myself no one knows them better.” 

“ I thank you, noble Clodius : under your auspices I might 
venture, I think, to wear the philyra : but, at my age, I should 
be an awkward pupil.” 

“ Oh, never fear ; I have made converts of fellows of seventy. 
The rich, too, are never old.” 

“ You flatter me. At some future time, I will remind you of 
your promise.” 

“ You may command Marcus Clodius at all times : — and 
so, vale ! ” 

“ Now,” said the Egyptian, soliloquizing, “ I am not wan- 
tonly a man of blood ; I would willingly save this Greek, i^ 
by confessing the crime, he will loosen himself forever to lone, 
and forever free me from the chance of discovery ; and I can 
save him by persuading Julia to own the philtre, which will 
be held his excuse. But if he do not confess the crime, why 
Julia must be shamed from the confession, and he must die I 
— die, lest he prove my rival wdth the living — die, that he may 
be my proxy with the dead ! Will he confess ? — can he not be 
persuaded that in his delirium he struck the blow .? To me it 
would give far greater safety than even his death. Hem I we 
must hazard the experiment.” 

Sweeping along the narrow street, Arbaces now approached 
the house of Sallust, when he beheld a dark form wrapped in a 
doak, and stretched at length across the threshold of the door. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


271 

So still lay the figure, and so dim was its outline, that any 
other than Arbaces might have felt a superstitious fear, lest 
he beheld one of those grim lemures^ who, above all other 
spots, haunted the threshold of the homes they formerly pos- 
sessed. But not for Arbaces were such dreams. 

“ Rise ! ” said he, touching the figure with his foot ; “ thou 
obstructest the way ! ” 

** Ha ! who art thou ? cried the form, in a sharp tone ; 
and as she raised herself from the ground, the starlight fell 
full on the pale face and fixed but sightless eyes of Nydia the 
Thessalian. “ Who art thou ? I know the burden of thy voice.*’ 

“ Blind girl, what dost thou here at this late hour ? Fie I — is 
this seeming thy sex or years ? Home, girl.’* 

“I know thee,” said Nydia, in a low voice, ‘‘thou art Ar- 
baces the Egyptian then, as if inspired by some sudden 
impulse, she flung herself at his feet, and clasping his knees 
exclaimed, in a wild passionate tone, “ Oh, dread and potent 
man ! save him — save him ! He is not guilty — it is 1 1 He 
lies within, ill — dying, and I — I am the hateful cause ! And 
they will not admit me to him — they spurn the blind girl from 
the hall. Oh, heal him I thou knowest some herb — some 
spell — some counter-charm, for it is a potion that hath wrought 
this frenzy ! ’* 

“ Hush, child ! I know all ! — thou forgettest that I accom- 
panied Julia to the saga’s home. Doubtless her hand admin- 
istered the draught ; but her reputation demands thy silence. 
Reproach not thyself — what must be, must : meanwhile, I seek 
the criminal — he may yet be saved. Away ! *’ 

Thus saying, Arbaces extricated himself from the clasp of 
the despairing Thessalian, and knocked loudly at the door. 

In a few moments the heavy bars were heard suddenly to 
yield, and the porter, half opening the door, demanded who 
was there. 

“ Arbaces — important business to Sallust relative to Glaucus. 
I come from the praetor.” 

The porter, half yawning, half groaning, admitted the tali 
form of the E^ptian. Nydia sprang forward. “ How is he ? ** 
she cried ; “ tell me — tell me ! ” 

“ Ho, mad girl 1 is it thou still ? — for shame ! Why, they say 
he is sensible.” 

“ The gods be praised ! — and you will not admit me ? Ah ! 
I beseech thee ” 

“ Admit thee ! — no. A pretty salute I should prepare foi 
these shoulders, were I to admit such things as thou 1 Go 
home 1 ’* 


272 


THE LAST DA YS OP POMFEIL 


The door closed, and Nydia, with a deep sigh, laid herself 
down once more on the cold stones ; and, wrapping her cloak 
round her face, resumed her weary vigil. 

Meanwhile, Arbaces had already gained the triclinium, where 
Sallust, with his favorite freedman, sat late at supper. 

“ What ! Arbaces ! and at this hour ! — Accept this cup.’^ 

“ Nay, gentle Sallust; it is on business, not pleasure, that I 
venture to disturb thee. How doth thy charge — they say in 
the town that he has recovered sense.” 

“ Alas ! and truly,” replied the good-natured but thought- 
less Sallust, wiping the tear from his eye ; “ but so shattered 
are his nerves and frame, that I scarcely recognize the bril 
liant and gay carouser I was wont to know. Yet, strange to 
say, he cannot account for the sudden cause of the frenzy 
that seized him — he retains but a dim consciousness of what 
hath passed ; and, despite thy witness, wise Egyptian, solemnly 
upholds his innocence of the death of Apaecides.” 

“ Sallust,” said Arbaces, gravely, “ there is much in thy 
friend’s case that merits a peculiar indulgence ; and could we 
learn from his lips the confession and the cause of his crime, 
much might yet be hoped from the mercy of the senate ; for 
the senate, thou knowest, hath the power either to mitigate or 
to sharpen the law. Therefore it is that I have conferred with 
the highest authority of the city, and obtained his permission to 
hold a private conference this night with the Athenian. To- 
morrow, thou knowest, the trial comes on.” 

“ Well,” said Sallust, “ thou wilt be worthy of thy Eastern 
name and fame if thou canst learn aught from him ; but thou 
mayst try. Poor Glaucus ! — and he had such an excellent 
appetite 1 He eats nothing now ! ” 

The benevolent epicure was moved sensibly at this thought 
He sighed, and ordered his slaves to refill his cup. 

“ Night wanes,” said the Egyptian ; “ suffer me to see thy 
ward now.” 

Sallust nodded assent, and led the way to a small chamber, 
guarded without by two dozing slaves. The door opened : at the 
request of Arbaces, Sallust withdrew — the Eg)q)tian was alone 
with Glaucus. 

One of those tall and graceful candelabra common to that 
day, supporting a single lamp, burned beside the narrow bed. 
Its rays fell palely over the face of the Athenian, and Arbaces 
was moved to see how sensibly that countenance had changed. 
The rich color was gone, the cheek was sunk, the lips were con- 
vulsed and pallid ; fierce had been the struggle between reason 
and madness, life and death. The youth, the strength of Glau 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


273 

cus had conquered ; but the freshness of blood and soul — the 
life of life, its glory and its zest, were gone forever. 

The Egyptian seated himself quietly beside the bed ; Glaucus 
still lay mute and unconscious of his presence. At length, after 
a considerable pause, Arbaces thus spoke : — 

“ Glaucus, we have been enemies. I come to thee alone, 
and in the dead of night — thy friend, perhaps thy saviour.” 

As the steed starts from the path of the tiger, Glaucus sprang 
up breathless — alarmed, panting at the abrupt voice, the sudden 
apparition of his foe. Their eyes met, and neither, for some 
moments, had power to withdraw his gaze. The flush went 
and came over the face of the Athenian, and the bronzed cheek 
of the Egyptian grew a shade more pale. At length with an in- 
ward groan, Glaucus turned away, drew his hand across his brow, 
sunk back, and muttered — 

“ Am I still dreaming > ” 

** No, Glaucus, thou art awake. By this right hand and my 
father’s head, thou seest one who may save thy life. Hark ! I 
know what thou hast done, but I know also its excuse, of which 
thou thyself art ignorant. Thou hast committed murder, it is 
true — a sacrilegious murder, frown not — start not — ^these eyes 
saw it. But I can save thee — I can prove how thou wert be- 
reaved of sense, and made not a free-thinking and free-acting 
man. But in order to save thee, thou must confess thy crime. 
Sign but this paper, acknowledging thy hand in the death of 
Apaecides, and thou shalt avoid the fatal urn.” 

“ What words are these ? — Murder andApaecides ! — Did I 
not see him stretched on the ground, bleeding and a corpse ? 
and wouldst thou persuade me that I did the deed ? Man, thou 
best ! Away ! ” 

“ Be not rash — Glaucus, be not hasty ; the deed is proved. 
Come, come, thou mayst well be excused for not recalling the 
act of thy delirium, and which thy sober senses would have 
shunned even to contemplate. But let me try to refresh thy 
exhausted and weary memory. Thou knowest thou wert walk- 
ing with the priest, disputing about his sister ; thou knowest he 
was intolerant, and half a Nazarene, and he sought to convert 
thee, and ye had hot words ; and he calumniated thy mode of 
life, and swore he would not marry lone to thee — and then, in 
thy wrath and thy frenzy, thou didst strike the sudden blow. 
Come, come ; you can recollect this ! — read this pap)n-us, it runs 
to that effect — sign it, and thou art saved.” 

“ Barbarian, give me the written lie, that I may tear it ! 2 

the murderer of lone’s brother! /confess to have injured one 
hair of the head of him she loved ! Let me ^ther perish a 
thousand times ! " 


274 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


“ Beware ! said Arbaces, in a low and hissing tone^ ** there 
:s but one choice — thy confession and thy signature, or the 
amphitheatre and the lion’s maw ! ” 

As the Egyptian fixed his eyes upon the sufferer, he hailed 
with joy the signs of evident emotion that seized the latter at 
these words. A slight shudder passed over the Athenian’s frame 
— his lip fell — an expression of sudden fear and wonder betrayed 
itself in his brow and eye. 

“ Great gods,” he said, in a low voice, “ what reverse is this ? 
It seems but a little day since life laughed out from amidst 
roses — lone mine — youth, health, love, lavishing on me their 
treasures ; and now — pain, madness, shame, death ! And for 
what } what have I done ? Oh, I am mad still ! ” 

“ Sign, and be saved ! ” said the soft, sweet voice of the 
Egyptian. 

“ Tempter, never 1 ” cried Glaucus, in the reaction of rage. 
“ Thou knowest me not : thou knowcst not the haughty soul of 
an Athenian ! The sudden face of death might appal me 
for a moment, but the fear is over. Dishonor appals for- 
ever ! Who will debase his name to save his life who exchange 
clear thoughts for sullen days ? who will belie himself to 
shame, and stand blackened in the eyes of glory and of love ? 
If to earn a few years of polluted life there be so base a 
coward, dream not, dull barbarian of Egypt ! to find him in 
one who has trod the same sod as Harmodius, and breathed 
the same air as Socrates. Go ! leave me to live without self- 
reproach — or to perish without fear ! ” 

“ Bethink thee well ! the lion’s fangs : the hoots of the 
brutal mob ; the vulgar gaze on thy dying agony and mutilated 
limbs ; thy name degraded ; thy corpse unburied ; the shame 
thou wouldst avoid clinging to thee for aye and ever ! ” 

“ Thou ravest ! thou art the madman ! shame is not in the 
loss of other men’s esteem, — it is in the loss of our own. Wilt 
thou go ? — my eyes loathe the sight of thee ! hating ever, I de- 
spise thee now ! ” 

“ I go,” said Arbaces, stung and exasperated, but not with- 
out some pitying admiration of his victim, — “ I go ; we meet 
twice again — once at the Trial, once at the Death ! Fare- 
well ! ” 

The Egyptian rose slowly, gathered his robes about him, 
and left the chamber. He sought Sallust for a moment, whose 
eyes began to reel with the vigils of the cup : “ He is still un- 

conscious, or still obstinate ; there is no hope for him.” 

“ Say not so,” replied Sallust, who felt but little resent- 
ment against the Athep>5»n’s accuser, for he possessed np 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


*75 

great austerity of virtue, and was rather moved by his friend's 
reverses than persuaded of his innocence, — “ say not so, my 
Egyptian 1 so good a drinker shall be saved if possible. Bac- 
chus against Isis ! " 

“We shall see," said the Egyptian. 

Suddenly the bolts were again withdrawn — the door un- 
closed ; Arbaces was in the open street ; and poor Nydia once 
more started from h^r long watch. 

“ Wilt thou save him ? " she cried, clasping her hands. 

“ Child, follow me home ; I would speak to thee — it is for 
his sake I ask it." 

“ And thou wilt save him ? " 

No answer came forth to the thirsting ear of the blind girl ; 
Arbaces had already proceeded far up the street; she hesitated 
a moment, and then followed his steps in silence. 

“ I must secure this girl," said he, musingly, “lest she give 
evidence of the philtre ; as to the vain Julia, she will not be- 
tray herself." 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A classic funeral 

While Arbaces had been thus employed, Sorrow and Death 
were in the house of lone. It was the night preceding the 
morn in which the solemn funeral rites were to be decreed to 
the remains of the murdered Apaecides. The corpse had been 
removed from the temple of Isis to the house of the nearest 
surviving relative, and lone had heard, in the same breath, the 
death of her brother and the accusation against her betrothed. 
That first violent anguish which blunts the sense to all but 
itself, and the forbearing silence of her slaves, had prevented 
her learning minutely the circumstances attendant on the fate 
of her lover. His illness, his frenzy, and his approaching trial, 
were unknown to her. She learned only the accusation against 
him, and at once indignantly rejected it ; nay, on hearing that 
Arbaces was the accuser, she required no more to induce her 
firmly and solemnly to believe that the Egyptian himself was 
the criminal. But the vast and absorbing importance attached 
by the ancients to the performance of every ceremonial con- 
nected with the death of a relation, had, as yet, confined her 
woe and her convictions to the chamber of the deceased. 
Alas ! it was not for her to perform that tender and touching 
office, which obliged the nearest relative to endeavor to catcF 


THE LAST DA VS POMPEII. 


276 

the last breath — the parting soul — of the beloved one : but it 
was hers t(> close the straining eyes, the distorted lips ; to 
watch by the consecrated clay, as, fresh bathed and anointed, it 
lay in festive robes upon the ivory bed ; to strew the couch 
with leaves and flowers, and to renew the solemn cypress 
branch at the threshold of the door. And in these sad offices, 
in lamentation and in prayer, lone forgot herself. It was 
among the loveliest customs of the ancients to bury the young 
at the morning twilight ; for, as they strove to give the softest 
interpretation to death, so they poetically imagined that Aurora, 
who loved the young, had stolen them to her embrace; and 
though in the instance of the murdered priest this fable could 
not appropriately cheat the fancy, the general custom was still 
preserved.* 

The stars were fading one by one from the gray heavenSi 
and night slowly receding before the approach of mom, when 
a dark group stood motionless before lone’s door. High and 
slender torches, made paler by the unmellowed dawn, cast their 
light over various countenances, hushed for the moment in one 
solemn and intent expression. And now there arose a slow and 
dismal music, which accorded sadly with the rite, and floated 
far along the desolate and breathless streets ; while a chorus of 
female voices (the Praeficae so often cited by the Roman poets), 
accompanying the Tibicen and the Mysian flute, woke the 
following strain : — 


THE FUNERAL DIRGE. 

“ O’er the sad threshold, where the C)^ress bough 
Supplants the rose that should adorn thy home 

On the last pilgrimage on earth that now 
Awaits thee, wanderer to Cocytus, come ! 

Darkly we woo, and weeping we invite — 

Death is the host — ^his banquet asks thy soul ; 

Thy garlands hang within the House of Night, 

And the black stream alone shall fill thy bowL 

No more for thee the laughter and the song, 

The jocund night — the glory of the day ! 

The Argive daughters! at their labors long : 

The hell-bird swooping on its Titan prey— 

The false iEolidesf upheaving slow, 

O’er the eternal hill, the eternal stone ; 

The crowned Lydian,§ in his parching woe, 

And green Callirrhoe’s monster-headed son,ll — 

♦ This was rather a Greek than a Roman custom ; but the reader will ok 
serve that in the cities of Magna Graecia the Greek customs and superstitions 
were much mingled with the Roman. 

t The Danaides. t Sisyphus. § TantaliT 1| Geryon. 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII, 


277 

These shalt thou see, dim shadow’d through the daxk» 

Which makes the sky of Pluto’s dreary shore : 

Lo ! where thou stand’st, pale-gazing on the bark, 

That waits our rite* to bear thee trembling o’er t 

Come then ! no more delay I — the phantom pines 
Amidst the Unburied for its latest home ; 

O’er the gray sky the torch impatient shines — 

Come, mourner, forth ! — the lost one bids thee come 1 ” 

As the hymn died away, the group parted in twain ; and 
placed upon a couch, spread with a purple pall, the corpse of 
Apaecides was carried forth, with the^feet foremost. The 
designator, or marshal of the sombre ceremonial, accompanied 
by his torch-bearers, clad in black, gave the signal, and the 
procession moved dreadly on. 

First went the musicians, playing a slow march — the solem- 
nity of the lower instruments broken by many a louder and 
wilder burst of the funeral trumpet : next followed the hired 
mourners, chanting their dirges to the dead ; and the female 
voices were mingled with those of boys, whose tender years 
made still more striking the contrast of life and death — the 
fresh leaf and the withered one. But the players, the bulfoons, 
the archimimus (whose duty it was to personate the dead) — 
these, the customary attendants at ordinary funerals, were 
banished from a funeral attended with so many terrible associa- 
tions. 

The priests of Isis came next in their snowy garments, bare- 
footed, and supporting sheaves of corn ; while before the corpse 
were carried the images of the deceased and his many Athenian 
forefathers. And behind the bier followed, amidst her women, 
the sole surviving relative of the dead — her head bare, her locks 
dishevelled, her face paler than marble, but composed and still, 
save ever and anon, as some tender thought, awakened by the 
music, flashed upon the dark lethargy of woe, she covered that 
countenance with her hands, and sobbed unseen : for hers were 
not the noisy sorrow, the shrill lament, the ungoverned gesture, 
which characterized those who honored less faithfully. In that 
age, as in all, the channel of deep grief flowed hushed and still. 

And so the procession swept on, till it had traversed the 
streets, passed the city gate, and gained the Place of Tombs 
without the wall, which the traveller yet beholds. 

Raised in the form of an altar — of unpolished pine, amidst 
whose interstices were placed preparations of combustible mat- 
ter — stood the funeral pyre ; and around it drooped the dark 
and gloomy cypresses so consecrated by song to the tomb. 

* The most idle novel-reader need scarcely be reminded, that not till aftel 
the funeral rites were the dead carried over the Styx. 


2^8 the last da YS of POMPEII, 

As soon as the bier was placed upon the pile, the attendant* 
parting on either side, lone passed up to the couch, and stood 
before the unconscious clay for some moments motionless and 
silent. The features of the dead had been composed from the 
first agonized expression of violent death. Hushed forever 
the terror and the doubt, the contest of passion, the awe of 
religion, the struggle of the past and present, the hope and the 
horror of the future ! — of all that racked and desolated the 
breast of that young aspirant to the Holy of Life, what trace 
was visible in the awful serenity of that impenetrable brow and 
unbreathing lip ? The sister gazed, and not a sound was heard 
amidst the crowd ; there was something terrible, yet softening, 
also, in the silence ; and when it broke, it broke sudden and 
abrupt — it broke with a loud and passionate cry — the vent of 
long-smothered despair. 

“ My brother ! my brother ! ” cried the poor orphan, fall- 
ing upon the couch : “ thou whom the worm on thy path 

feared not — what enemy couldst thou provoke ? Oh, is it in 
truth come to this ? Awake 1 awake I We grew together 1 
Are we thus torn asunder ? Thou art Aot dead — thou sleep- 
est Awake ! awake I 

The sound of her piercing voice aroused the sympathy of 
the mourners, and they broke into loud and rude lament. 
This startled, this recalled lone ; she looked up hastily and 
confusedly, as if for the first time sensible of the presence of 
those around. 

Ah / " she murmured with a shiver, are not then alone /** 

With that, after a brief pause, she arose : and her pale and 
beautiful countenance was again composed and rigid. With 
fond and trembling hands, she unclosed the lids of the de- 
ceased ; * but when the dull glazed eye, no longer beaming 
with love and life, met hers, she shrieked aloud, as if she had 
seen a spectre. Once more recovering herself, she kissed 
again and again the lids, the lips, the brow; and v/ith me- 
chanic and unconscious hand, received from the high-priest 
of her brother’s temple the funeral torch. 

The sudden burst of music, the sudden song of the moun» 
crs, announced the birth of the sanctifying flame. 

HYMN TO THE WIND. 

I. 

** On thy couch of cloud reclined. 

Wake, O soft and sacred Wind: 


♦ Pliny, il 37. 


THE LAST DA KS OF POMPEII, 


379 


Soft and sacred will we name thee, 
Whoso’er the sire that claim thee,— 
Whether Old Auster’s dusky child, 

Or the loud son of Eurus wild; 

Or his * who o’er the darkling deeps. 
From the bleak North, in tempest sweeps 
Still shalt thou seem as dear to us 
As flowery-crowned Zephyrus, 

When, through twilight’s starry dew. 
Trembling he hastes his nymph f to wook 

II. 

Lo ! our silver censers swinging. 

Perfumes o’er thy path are flinging, — 
Ne’er o’er Temple’s breathless valleys, 
Ne’er o’er Cypria’s cedam alleys, 

Or the Rose-isle’s t moon-lit sea. 

Floated sweets more worthy thee. 

Lo ! around our vases sending 
Myrrh and nard with cassia blending; 
Paving air with odors meet. 

For thy silver-sandall’d feet I 

III. 

August and everlasting air I 

The source of all that breathe and 
From the mute clay before thee bear 
The seeds it took from thee I 
Aspire, bright Flame ! aspire ! 

Wild wind I — awake, awake I 
Thine own, O solemn Fire I 

O Air, thine own retake I 


IV. 

It comes ! it comes 1 Lo I it sweeps. 

The Wind we invoke the while I 
And crackles, and darts, and leaps 
The light on the holy pile I 
It rises ! its wings interweave 
With the flames — how they howl and heave! 
Toss’d, whirl’d to and fro. 

How the flame-serpents glow I 
Rushing higher and higher, 

On — on, fearful Fire 1 
Thy giant limbs twined 
With the arms of the Wind ! 

Lot the elements meet on the throne 
Of death — lo reclaim their own 1 


V. 

Swing, swing the censer round— 
Tune the strings to a softer sound ! 
From the chains of thy earthly toil. 
From the clasp of thy mortal coil, 

t Flofa. 


• Boreas. 


t Rhode#, 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


sSo 

From the prison where clav confined thee, 

The hands of the flame unbind thee 1 
O Soul 1 thou art free — all free ! 

As the winds in their ceaseless chase, 

When they rush o’er the airy sea, 

Thou mayst speed through the realms of space. 

No fetter is forged for thee 1 
Rejoice ! o’er the sluggard tide 
Of the Styx thy bark can glide. 

And thy steps evermore shall rove 
Through the glades of the happy grove ; 

Where, far from the loath’d Cocytus, 

The loved and the lost invite us. 

Thou art slave to the earth no more 1 
O soul, thou art freed 1 — ^and we ? — 

Ah I when shall our toil be o'er ? 

Ah ! when shall we rest with thee ? 

And now high and far into the dawning skies broke the fra 
grant fire ; it flashed luminously across the gloomy cypresses— 
it shot above the massive walls of the neighboring city ; and the 
early fishermen started to behold the blaze reddening on the 
waves of the creeping sea. 

But lone sat down apart and alone, and leaning her face 
upon her hands, saw not the flame, nor heard the lamentation 
of the music : she felt only one sense of loneliness — she had not 
yet arrived to that hallowing sense of comfort, when we know 
that we are not alone — that the dead are with us ! 

The breeze rapidly aided the effect of the combustibles placed 
within the pile. By degrees the flame wavered, lowered, dimmed, 
and slowly, by fits and unequal starts, died away — emblem of life 
itself ; where, just before, all was restlessness and flame, now lay 
the dull and smouldering ashes. 

The last sparks were extinguished by the attendants — the 
embers were collected. Steeped in the rarest wine and the 
costliest odors, the remains were placed in a silver urn, which 
was solemnly stored in one of the neighboring sepulchres beside 
the road ; and they placed within it the vial full of tears, and 
the small coin which poetry still consecrated to the grim boat- 
man. And the sepulchre was covered with flowers and chaplets, 
and incense kindled on the altar, and the tomb hung round 
with many lamps. 

But the next day, when the priest returned wi^h fresW offer- 
ings to the tomb, he found that to the relics of heathen supersti- 
tion some unknown hands had added a green palm-branch. 
He suffered it to remain, unknowing that it was the seoulchral 
emblem of Christianity. 

When the above ceremonies were over, one of the Praeficas 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


281 

three times sprinkled the mourners from the purifying branch 
of laurel, uttering the last word, “ / ’’—Depart !— and the 
rite was done. 

But first they paused to utter — weepingly and many times 
— the affecting farewell, “ Salve Eternum / ” And as lone yet 
lingered, they woke the parting strain. 

SALVE ETERNUM. 


I. 

“ Farewell I O soul departed ! 

Farewell 1 O sacred um ! 

Bereaved and broken-hearted, 

To earth the mourners turn! 

To the dim and dreary shore, 

Thou art gone our steps before I 
But thither the swift hours lead us. 

And thou dost but a while precede us I 
Salve — salve I 

Loved um, and thou solemn cell, 

Mute ashes ! — farewell, farewell 1 

Salve — Salve I 

II. 

Bicet — ire licet — 

Ah, vainly would we part f 
Thy tomb is the faithful heart. 

About evermore we bear thee ; 

For whom from the heart can tear thee 
Vainly we sprinkle o’er us 

The drops of the cleansing stream ; 
And vainly bright before us 
The lustral fire shall beam. 

For where is the charm expelling 
' Thy thoughts from its sacred dwelling ? 
Our griefs are thy funeral feast, ’ 

And Memory thy mourning priest, 

Salve — salve I 

III. 

Ilicet —he licet I 

The spark from the hearth is gone 
Wherever the air shall bear it; 

The elements take their own — 

The shadows receive thy spirit. 

It will soothe thee to feel our grief. 

As thou glid’st by the Gloomy River S 
If love may in life be brief. 

In death it is fixed forever. 

Salve — salve ! 

In the hall which our feasts illume 
The rose for an hour may bloom ; 

But the cypress that decks the tomb — 
The cypress is green forever ! 

Salve — ^salve I ” 


382 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


CHAPTER IX. 

In which an adventure happens to lone. 

While some stayed behind to share with the priests the 
funeral banquet, lone and her handmaids took homeward their 
melancholy way. And now (the last duties to her brother per- 
formed; her mind awoke from its absorption, and she thought 
of her affianced, and the dread charge against him. Not — as 
we have before said — attaching even a momentary belief to the 
unnatural accusation, but nursing the darkest suspicion against 
Arbaces, she felt that justice to her lover and to her murdered 
relative demanded her to seek the praetor, and communicate 
her impression, unsupported as it might be. Questioning her 
maidens, who had hitherto — kindly anxious, as I have said, to 
5ave her the additional agony — refrained from informing her 
•pf the state of Glaucus, she learned that he had been danger- 
ously ill ; that he was in custody, under the roof of Sallust ; that 
the day of his trial was appointed. 

“ Averting gods ! " she exclaimed : and have I been so 
long forgetful of him ? Have I seemed to shun him t Oh ! let 
me hasten to do him justice — to show that I, the nearest rela- 
tive of the dead, believe him innocent of the charge. Quick ! 
quick ! let us fly. Let me soothe — tend — cheer him ! and if 
they will not believe me ; if they will not yield to my convic- 
tion ; if they sentence him to exile or to death, let me share the 
sentence with him ! ” 

Instinctively she hastened her pace, confused and bewil- 
dered, scarce knowing whither she went ; now designing first 
to seek the praetor, and now to rush to the chamber of Glau- 
cus. She hurried on — she passed the gate of the city — she 
was in the long street leading up the town. The houses were 
opened, but none were yet astir in the streets ; the life of the 
city was scarce awake — when lo ! she came suddenly upon a 
small knot of men standing beside a covered litter. A tall 
figure stepped from the midst of them, and lone shrieked aloud 
to behold Arbaces. 

“ Fair lone ! ” said he, gently, and appearing not to heed 
her alarm ; “ my ward, my pupil ! forgive me if I disturb thy 
pious sorrows ; but the praetor, solicitous of thy honor, and 
anxious that thou mayst not rashly be implicated in the coining 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


trial ; knowing the strange embarrassment of thy state (seeking 
justice for thy brother, but dreading punishment to thy be 
trothed) — sympathizing, too, with thy unprotected and friendless 
condition, and deeming it harsh that thou shouldst be suffered 
to act unguided and mourn alone — hath wisely and paternally 
confided thee to the care of thy lawful guardian. Behold the 
writing which intrusts thee to my charge ! ” 

Dark Egyptian ! ” cried lone, drawing herself proudly 
aside ; “ begone ! It is thou that hast slain my brother ! Is it 
to thy care, thy hands yet reeking with his blood, that they will 
give the sister ? Ha ! thou turnest pale I thy conscience smites 
thee ! thou tremblest at the thunderbolt of the avenging god I 
Pass on, and leave me to my woe I ” 

“ Thy sorrows unstring thy reason, lone,” said Arbaces, 
attempting in vain his usual calmness of tone. “ I forgive 
thee. Thou wilt find me now, as ever, thy surest friend. But 
the public streets are not the fitting place for us *0 confer — for 
me to console thee. Approach, slaves ! Con e, my sweet 
charge, the litter awaits thee.” 

The amazed and terrified attendants gathered round lone, 
and clung to her knees. 

“ Arbaces,” said the eldest of the maidens, “this is surely 
not the law ! For nine days after the funeral, is it not written 
that the relatives of the deceased shall not be molested in their 
homes, or interrupted in their solitary grief ? ” 

“ Woman ! ” returned Arbaces, imperiously waving his 
hand, “ to place a ward under the roof of her guardian is not 
against the funeral laws. I tell thee I have the fiat of the 
prsetor. This delay is indecorous. Place her in the litter.” 

So saying, he threw his arm firmly round the shrinking form 
of lone. She drew back, gazed earnestly in his face, and then 
burst into hysterical laughter : — 

“ Ha, ha ! this is well — well ! Excellent guardian — paternal 
law ! Ha, ha ! ” And, startled herself at the dread echo of that 
shrill and maddened laughter, she sank, as it died away, life- 
less upon the ground. * * * * A minute more, and 

Arbaces had lifted her into the litter. The bearers moved 
swiftly on, and the unfortunate lone was soon borne from the 
light of her weeping handmaids. ^ 


284 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


CHAPTER X. 

What becomes of Nydia in the house of Arbaces. — The Egyptian feels com- 
passion for Glaucus. — Compassion is often a very useless visitor to the 
guilty. 

It will be remembered that, at the command of Arbaces, 
Nydia followed the Egyptian to his home, and conversing there 
with her, he learned from the confession of her despair and re- 
morse, that her hand, and not Julia’s, had administered to 
Glaucus the fatal potion. At another time the Egyptian might 
have conceived a philosophical interest in sounding the depths 
and origin of the strange and absorbing passion which, in blind- 
ness and in slavery, this singular girl had dared to cherish ; but 
at present he spared no thought from himself. As, after her 
confession, the poor Nydia threw herself on her knees before 
him, and besought him to restore tlie health and save the life 
of Glaucus — for in her youth and ignorance she imagined the 
dark magician all-powerful to effect both — Arbaces, with un- 
heeding ears, was noting only the new expediency of detaining 
Nydia a prisoner until the trial and fate of Glaucus were de- 
cided. For if, when he judged her merely the accomplice of 
Julia in obtaining the philtre, he had felt it was dangerous to 
the full success of his vengeance to allow her to be at large — to 
appear, perhaps, as a witness — to avow the manner in which 
the sense of Glaucus had been darkened, and thus win indul- 
gence to the crime of which he was accused — how much more 
was she likely to volunteer her testimony when she herself had 
administered the draught, and inspired by love, would be only 
anxious, at any expense of shame, to retrieve her error and pre- 
serve her beloved ! Besides, how unworthy of the rank and re- 
pute of Arbaces to be implicated in the disgrace of pandering 
to the passion of Julia, and assisting in the unholy rites of the 
Saga of Vesuvius ! Nothing less, indeed, than his desire to in- 
duce Glaucus to own the murder of Apaecides, as a policy evi- 
dently the best both for his own permanent safety and his suc- 
cessful suit with lone, could ever have led him to contemplate 
the confession of Julia. 

As for Nydia, who was necessarily cut off by her blindness 
from much of the knowledge of active life, and who, a slave 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


285 

and a stranger, was naturally ignorant of the perils of the 
Roman law, she thought rather of the illness and delirium of 
her Athenian, than the crime of which she had vaguely heard 
him accused, or the chances of the impending trial. Poor 
wretch that she was, whom none addressed, none cared for, 
what did she know of the senate and the sentence — the hazard 
of the law — the ferocity of the people — the arena and the 
lien’s den ? She was accustomed only to associate with the 
thought of Glaucus everything that was prosperous and lofty 
— she could not imagine that any peril, save from the madness 
of her love, could menace that sacred head. He seemed to 
her set apart for the blessings of life. She only had disturbed 
the current of his felicity ; she knew not, she dreamed not, 
that the stream, once so bright, was dashing on to darkness 
and to death. It was therefore to restore the brain that s?it 
had marred, to save the life that she had endangered, that she 
implored the assistance of the great Egyptian. 

“ Daughter,” said Arbaces, waking from his reverie, “ thou 
must rest here ; it is not meet for thee to wander along the 
streets, and be spurned from the threshold by the rude feet 
of slaves. I have compassion on thy soft crime — I will do all 
to remedy it. Wait here patiently for some days, and Glau' 
cus shall be restored.” So saying, and without waiting for 
her reply, he hastened from the room, drew the bolt across 
the door, and consigned the care and wants of his prisoner to 
the slave who had the charge of that part of the mansion. 

Alone, then, and musingly, he waited the morning light, 
and with it repaired, as we have seen, to possess himself of the 
person of lone. 

His primary object, with respect to the unfortunate Nea- 
politan, was that which he had really stated to Clodius, viz., to 
prevent her interesting herself actively in the trial of Glaucus, 
and also to guard against her accusing him (which she would, 
doubtless, have done) of his former act of perfidy and violence 
towards her, his ward — denouncing his causes for vengeance 
against Glaucus — unveiling the hypocrisy of his character — and 
casting any doubt upon his veracity in the charge which he had 
made against the Athenian. Not till he had encountered her 
that morning — not till he had heard her loud denunciations — 
was he aware that he had also another danger to apprehend in 
her suspicion of his crime. He hugged himself now in the 
thought that these ends were effected ; that one, at once the 
object of his passion and his fear, was in his power. He be- 
lieved more than ever the flattering promises of the stars ; and 
when he sought lone in that chambe*’ 'n the inmost recesses of 


286 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


his mysterious mansion to which he had consigned her — when 
he found her overpowered by blow upon blow, and passing 
from fit to fit, from violence to torpor, in all the alternations of 
hysterical disease — he thought more of the loveliness which 
no frenzy could distort, than of the woe which he had brought 
upon her. In that sanguine vanity common to men who 
through life have been invariably successful, whether in for- 
tune or love, he flattered himself that when Glaucus had per- 
ished — when his name was solemnly blackened by the award 
of a legal judgment, his title to her love forever forfeited by 
condemnation to death for the murder of her own brother — 
her affection would be changed to horror ; and that his ten- 
derness and his passion, assisted by all the arts with which he 
well knew how to dazzle women’s imagination, might elect 
him to that throne in her heart from which his rival would be so 
awfully expelled. This was his hope : but should it fail, his 
unholy and fervid passion whispered, “ At the worst now she is 
in my power.” 

Yet, withal, he felt that uneasiness and apprehension which 
attended upon the chance of detection, even when the criminal 
is insensible to the voice of conscience — that vague terror of 
the consequences of crime, which is often mistaken for remorse 
at the crime itself. The buoyant air of Campania weighed 
heavily upon his breast ; he longed to hurry from a scene where 
danger might not sleep eternally with the dead ; and, having 
lone now in his possession, he secretly resolved, as soon as 
he had witnessed the last agony of his rival, to transport his 
wealth — and her, the costliest treasure of all, to some distant 
shore. 

“ Yes,” said he, striding to and fro his solitary chamber — 
“ yes, the law that gave me the person of my ward gives me the 
possession of my bride. Far across the broad main will we 
sweep on our search after novel luxuries and inexperienced 
pleasures. Cheered by my stars, supported by the omens of 
my soul, we will penetrate to those vast and glorious worlds 
which my wisdom tells me lie yet untracked in the recesses of 
the circling sea. There may this heart, possessed of love, grow 
once more alive to ambition — there, amongst nations uncrushed 
by the Roman yoke, and to whose ear the name of Rome has not 
yet been wafted, I may found an empire, and transplant my an- 
cestral creed : renewing the ashes of the dead Theban rule : 
continuing on yet grander shores the dynasty of my crowned 
fathers, and waking in the noble heart of lone the grateful con- 
sciousness that she shares the lot of one who, far from the aged 
rottenness of this slavish civilization, restores the primal elements 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPE/L 287 

of greatness, and unites in one mighty soul the attributes of the 
prophet and the king.” 

From this exultant soliloquy, Arbaces was awakened to 
attend the trial of the Athenian. 

The worn and pallid cheek of his victim touched him less 
tlian the firmness of his nerves and the dauntlessness of his 
brow ; for Arbaces was one who had little pity for what was un- 
fortunate, but a strong sympathy for what was bold. The con- 
genialities that bind us to others ever assimilate to the qualities 
of our own nature. The hero weeps less at the reverses of his 
enemy than at the fortitude with which he bears them. All of 
us are human, and Arbaces, criminal as he was, had his share 
of our common feelings and our mother-clay. Had he but ob- 
tained from Glaucus the written confession of his crime, which 
would, better than even the judgment of others, have lost him 
with lone, and removed from Arbaces the chance of future de- 
tection, the Egyptian would have strained every nerve to save 
his rival. Even now his hatred was over — his desire of revenge 
was slacked ; he crushed his prey, not in enmity, but as an ob- 
stacle in his path. Yet was he not the less resolved, the less 
crafty and persevering, in the course he pursued, for the destruc- 
tion of one whose doom was become necessary to the attainment 
of his objects ; and while, with apparent reluctance and compas- 
sion, he gave against Glaucus the evidence which condemned 
him, he secretly, and through the medium of the priesthood, 
fomented that popular indignation which made an effectual ob- 
stacle to the pity of the senate. He had sought Julia; he had 
detailed to her the confession of Nydia ; he had easily, there- 
fore, lulled any scruple of conscience which might have led her 
to extenuate the offence of Glaucus by avowing her share in his 
frenzy : and the more readily, for her vain heart had loved the 
fame and the prosperity of Glaucus — not Glaucus himself ; she 
felt no affection for a disgraced man — nay, she almost rejoiced 
in a disgrace that humbled the hated lone. If Glaucus could 
not be her slave, neither could he be the adorer of her rival. 
This was sufficient consolation for any regret at his fate. Vol- 
atile and fickle, she began again to be moved by the sudden and 
earnest suit of Clodius, and was not willing to hazard the loss 
of an alliance with that base but highborn noble by any public 
exposure of her past weakness and immodest passion for another. 
All things then smiled upon Arbaces — all things frowned upon 
the Athenian- 


288 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Nydia affects the sorceress. 

When the Thessalian found that Arbaces returned to her 
ao more — when she was left, hour after hour, to all the torture 
of that miserable suspense which was rendered by blindness 
doubly intolerable, she began, with outstretched arms, to feel 
around her prison for some channel of escape ; and finding the 
only entrance secure, she called aloud, and with the vehemence 
of a temper naturally violent, and now sharpened by impatient 
agony, y 

“ Ho, girl ! ” said the slave in attendance, opening the door ; 
“ art thou bit by a scorpion ? or thinkest thou that we are dying 
of silence here, and only to be preserved, like the infant Jupiter, 
by a hullabaloo ? 

Where is thy master ? and wherefore am I caged here ? 
I want air and liberty : let me go forth ! ” 

“ Alas ! little one, hast thou not seen enough of Arbaces to 
know that his will is imperial ? He hath ordered thee to be 
caged ; and caged thou art, and I am thy keeper. Thou canst 
not have air and liberty ; but thou mayst have what are much 
better things — food and wine.” 

“ Proh Jupiter ! ” cried the girl, wringing her hands ; “ and 
why am I thus imprisoned } What can the great Arbaces want 
with so poor a thing as I am ? ” 

“ That I know not, unless it be to attend on thy new mistress, 
who has been brought hither this day.” 

“ What ! lone here ? ” 

“Yes, poor lady; she liked it little, I fear. Yet, by the 
Temple of Castor ! Arbaces is a gallant man to the women. 
Thy lady is his ward, thou knowest.” 

“ Wilt thou take me to her 7 ” 

“ She is ill — frantic with rage and spite. Besides, I have 
no orders to do so ; and I never think for myself. When 
Arbaces made me slave of these chambers,* he said, ‘ I have 
but one lesson to give thee ; — while thou servest me, thou must 

* In the houses of the great, each suite of chambers had itspecuJ^'V slave 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 289 

have neither ears, eyes, nor thought; thou must be but one 
quality — obedience ! ^ 

“ But what harm is there in seeing lone ? ” 

“ That I know not ; but if thou wantest a companion, I am 
willing to talk to thee, little one, for I am solitary enough in 
my dull cubiculum. And, by the way, thou art Thessalian — ‘ 
knowest thou not some cunning amusement of knife and shears, 
some pretty trick of telling fortunes, as most of thy race do, in 
order to pass the time ? ” 

“Tush, slave, hold thy peace! or, if thou wilt speak, what 
hast thou heard of the state of Glaucus ? ** 

“ Why, my master has gone to the Athenian’s trial ; Glaucus 
will smart for it ! ” 

“ For what ? ” 

“ The murder of the priest Apaecides.” 

“Ha!” said Nydia, pressing her hands to her forehead; 
“ something of this I have indeed heard, but understand not. 
Yet who will dare to touch a hair of his head ?” 

“ That will the lion, I fear.” 

“ Averting gods ! what wickedness dost thou utter ? ” 

“ Why, only that, if he be found guilty, the lion, or may be 
the tiger, will be his executioner.” 

Nydia leaped up as if an arrow had entered her heart ; she 
uttered a piercing scream ; then, falling before the feet of the 
slave, she cried, in a tone that melted even his rude heart — 

“ Ah ! tell me thou jesteth — thou utterest not the truth — 
speak, speak ! ” 

“ Why, by my faith, blind girl, I know nothing of the law ; 
it may not be so bad as I say. But Arbaces is his accuser, 
and the people desire a victim for the arena. Cheer thee ! 
But what hath the fate of the Athenian to do with thine ” 

“No matter, no matter — he has been kind to me: thou 
knowest not, then, what they will do ? Arbaces his accuser . 
O fate ! The people — the people ! Ah ! they can look upon 
his face — who will be cruel to the Athenian ! — ^Yet was not love 
itself cruel to him ? ” 

So saying, her head drooped upon her bosom: she sank 
into silence ; scalding tears flowed down her cheeks ; and all 
the kindly efforts of the slave were unable either to console 
her or distract the absorption of her reverie. 

When his household cares obliged the ministrant to leave 
her room, Nydia began to re-collect her thoughts. Arbaces 
was the accuser of Glaucus ; Arbaces had imprisoned her here ; 
was not that a proof that her liberty might be serviceable to 
Glaucus? Yes, she was evidently inveigled into some snare; 

IQ 


THE LAST DA YS OP POMPEII. 


290 

she was coiitributing to the destruction of her beloved ! Oh, 
how she panted for release ! Fortunately for her sufferings, 
all sense of pain became merged in the desire of escape ; and 
as she began to rev 3lve the possibility of deliverance, she grew 
calm and thoughtful. She possessed much of the cralt of her 
sex, and it had been increased in her breast by her early servi- 
tude. What slave was ever destitute of cunning } She resolved 
to practice upon her keeper ; and, calling suddenly to mind his 
superstitious query as to her Thessalian art, she hoped by that 
handle to v/ork out some method of release. These doubts 
occupied her mind during the rest of the day and the long 
hours of the night ; and, accordingly, when Sosia visited her 
the following morning, she hastened to divert his garrulity into 
that channel in which it had before evinced a natural disposi- 
tion to flow. 

She was aware, however, that her only chance of escape 
was at night ; and accordingly she was obliged, with a bitter 
pang at the delay, to defer till then her purposed attempt. 

“ The night,” said she, “ is the sole time in which we can 
well decipher the decrees of Fate — then it is thou must seek 
me. But what desirest thou to learn ? ” 

“ By Pollux I I should like to know as much as my master ; 
but that is not to be expected. Let me know, at least, whether 
I shall save enough to purchase my freedom, or whether this 
Egyptian will give it me for nothing. He does such generous 
things sometimes. Next, supposing that be true, shall I possess 
myself of that snug taberna among the Myropolia* which I have 
long had in my eye Tis a genteel trade that of a perfumer, 
and suits a retired slave who has something of a gentleman 
about him I ” 

“ Ay ! so you would have precise answers to those questions ? 
— there are various ways of satisfying you. There is the 
Lithomanteia, or Speaking-stone, which answers your prayer 
with an infant’s voice ; but, then, we have not that precious 
stone with us — costly is it and rare. Then there is the Gastro- 
manteia, whereby the demon casts pale and deadly images upon 
water, prophetic of the future. But this art requires also glasses 
of a peculiar fashion, to contain the consecrated liquid, which 
we have not. I think, therefore, that the simplest method of 
satisfying your desire would be by the Magic of Air.” 

“ I trust,” said Sosia, tremulously, “ that there is nothing very 
frightful in the operation ? I have no love for apparitions.” 

“ Fear not ; thou wilt see nothing ; thou wilt only hear by 
the bubbling of water whether or not thy suit prospers. Firs^ 

* The shops of the perfumers. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


2^1 


then, be sure, from the rising of the evening star, that thou 
leavest the garden-gate somewhat open, so that the demon 
may feel himself invited to enter therein ; and place fruits and 
water near the gate as a sign of hospitality ; then, three hours 
after twilight, come here with a bowl of the coldest and purest 
water, and thou shalt learn all, according to the Thessalian lore 
my mother taught me. But forget not the garden-gate — all rests 
upon that : it must be open when you come, and for three hours 
previously.” 

Trust me,” replied the unsuspecting Sosia ; “ I know what 
a gentleman’s feelings are when a door is shut in his face, as 
the cook-shop’s hath been in mine many a day ; and I know 
also that a person of respectability, as a demon of course is, 
cannot but be pleased, on the other hand, with any little mark 
of courteous hospitality. Meanwhile, pretty one, here is thy 
morning’s meal.” 

“ And what of the trial ? ” 

“ Oh, the lawyers are still at it — talk, talk — it will last over 
till to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow ? — you are sure of that ? ” 

“ So I hear.” 

“ And lone ? ” 

“ By Bacchus ! she must be tolerably well, for she was 
strong enough to make my master stamp and bite his lip this 
morning. I saw him quit her apartment with a brow like a 
tliunder-storm.” 

“ Lodges she near this ? ” 

“ No — in the upper apartments. But I must not stay prat* 
ing here longer. — Vak / ” 


CHAPTER XII. 

A wasp ventures into the spider's web. 

The second night of the trial had set in ; and it was nearly 
the time in which Sosia was to brave the dread Unknown, 
when there entered, at that very garden-gate which the slave 
had left ajar — not, indeed, one of the mysterious spirits of 
earth or air, but the heavy and most human form of Calenus, 
the priest of Isis. He scarcely noted the humble offerings of 
indifferent fruit and still more indifferent wine, which the pious 
Sosia had deemed good enough for the invisible stranger the/ 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


292 

were intended to allure. “ Some tribute,” thought he, “ to the 
garden god. By my father’s head ! if his deityship were never 
better served, he would do well to give up the godly profession. 
Ah ! were it not for us priests, the gods would have a sad time 
of it. And now for Arbaces — I am treading a quicksand, but 
it ought to cover a mine. I have the Egyptian’s life in my 
power — what will he value it at ? ” 

As he thus soliloquized, he crossed through the open court 
into the peristyle, where a few lamps here and there broke upon 
the empire of the star-lit night ; and, issuing from one of the 
chambers that bordered the colonnade, suddenly encountered 
Arbaces. 

“ Ho ! Calenus — seekest thou me ? ” said the Egyptian ; 
and there was a little embarrassment in his voice. 

“ Yes, wise Arbaces — I trust my visit is not unseasonable ? ” 

“ Nay — it was but this instant that my freedman Callias 
sneezed thrice at my right hand ; I knew, therefore, some good 
fortune was in store for me — and lo ! the gods have sent me 
Calenus.” 

“ Shall we within to your chamber, Arbaces ? ” 

‘‘ As you will ; but the night is clear and balmy — I have 
some remains of languor yet lingering on me from my recent 
illness — the air refreshes me — let us walk in the garden — we 
are equally alone there.” 

“With all my heart,” answered the priest; and the two 
friends passed slowly to one of the many terraces which, bor- 
dered by marble vases and sleeping flowers, intersected the 
garden. 

“ It is a lovely night,” said Arbaces — “ blue and beautiful as 
that on which, twenty years ago, the shores of Italy first broke 
upon my view. My Calenus, age creeps upon us — let us, at 
least, feel that we have lived.” 

“ Thou, at least, mayst arrogate that boast,” said Calenus, 
beating about, as it were, for an opportunity to communicate 
the secret which weighed upon him, and feeling his usual awe 
of Arbaces still more impressively that night, from the quiet and 
friendly tone of dignified condescension which the Egyptian as- 
sumed — “ Thou, at least, mayst arrogate that boast. Thou hast 
had countless wealth — a frame on whose close- woven fibres 
disease can find no space to enter — prosperous love — inexhaust- 
ible pleasure and, even at this hour, triumphant revenge.” 

“ Thou alludest to the Athenian. Ay, to-morrow’s sun the 
fiat of his death will go forth. The senate does not relent. 
But thou mistakest : his death gives me no other gratification 
than that it releases me from a rival in the affections of lone^ 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


293 


I entertain no other sentiment of animosity against that un- 
fortunate homicide.’^ 

“Homicide!” repeated Calenus, slowly and meaningly; 
and, halting as he spoke, he fixed his eyes upon Arbaces. Tne 
stars shone pale and steadily on the proud face of their prophet, 
but they betrayed there no change : the eyes of Calenus fell, 
disappointed and abashed. He continued rapidly — “ Homicide ! 
it is well to charge him with that crime ; but thou, of all men, 
knowest that he is innocent.” 

“Explain thyself,” said Arbaces, coldly; for he had pre- 
pared himself for the hint his secret fears had foretold. 

“ Arbaces,” answered Calenus, sinking his voice into a 
whisper, “ I was in the sacred grove, sheltered by the chapel and 
the surrounding foliage. I overheard — I marked the whole. I 
saw thy weapon pierce the heart of Apaecides. I blame not 
the deed — it destroyed a foe and an apostate.” 

“ Thou sawest the whole I ” said Arbaces, dryly : “so I 
imagined — thou wert alone ^ ” 

“ Alone I ” returned Calenus, surprised at the Egyptian’s 
calmness. 

“ And wherefore wert thou hid behind the chapel at that 
hour ? ” 

“ Because I had learned of the conversion of Apaecides to 
the Christian faith — because I knew that on that spot he was to 
meet the fierce Olinthus — because they were to meet there to 
discuss the plans for unveiling the sacred mysteries of our god- 
dess to the people — and I was there to detect, in order to defeat 
them.” 

“ Hast thou told living ear what thou didst witness ? ” 

“ No, my master ; the secret is locked in thy servant’s breast.” 

“ What ! even thy kinsman Burbo guesses it not ! Come, 
the truth ! ” 

“ By the gods ” 

“ Hush ! we know each other — what are the gods to us I ” 

“ By the fear of thy vengeance, then — no 1 ” 

“ And why hast thou hitherto concealed from me this secret ? 
Why hast thou waited till the eve of the Athenian’s condemna- 
tion before thou hast ventured to tell me that Arbaces is a mur- 
derer? And, having tarried so long, why revealest thou now 
that knowledge ? ” 

“ Because — because ” stammered Calenus, coloring and 

in confusion. 

“ Because,” interrupted Arbaces, with a gentle smile, and 
tapping the priest on the shoulder with a kindly and familiar 
gesture — “ because, my Calenus (see now, I will read thy heart, 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


294 

and explain its motives) — because thou didst wish thoroughly 
to commit and ec tangle me in the trial, so that I might have 
no loop-hole of escape ; that I might stand firmly pledged to 
perjury and to malice, as well as to homicide ; that having my- 
ielf whetted the appetite of the populace to blood, no wealth, 
no power, could prevent my becoming their victim ; and thou 
tellest me thy secret now, ere the trial be over, and the inno- 
cent condemned, to show what a desperate web of villany thy 
word to-morrow could destroy ; to enhance in this, the ninth 
hour, the price of thy forbearance ; to show that my own art^ 
in arousing the popular wrath, would, at thy witness, recoil 
upon myself ; and that, if not for Glaucus, for me would gape 
the jaws of the lion ! Is it not so ? ” 

“ Arbaces,” replied Calenus, losing all the vulgar audacity 
of his natural character, “ verily thou art a Magician ; thou 
readest the heart as it were a scroll.” 

“ It is my vocation,” answered the Egyptian, laughing gen- 
tly. “ Well, then forbear ; and when all is over, I will make 
thee rich.” 

“ Pardon me,” said the priest, as the quick suggestion of 
that avarice, which was his master-passion, bade him trust no 
future, chance of generosity ,• ‘‘ pardon me ; thou saidst right — 
we know each other. If thou wouldst have me silent, thou 
must pay something in advance, as an offer to Harpocrates.* 
If the rose, sweet emblem of discretion, is to take root firmly, 
water her this night with a stream of gold.” 

“ Witty and poetical I ” answered Arbaces, still in that bland 
voice which lulled and encouraged, when it ought to have 
alarmed and checked, his griping comrade. “Wilt thou not 
wait the morrow ? ” 

“ Why this delay "i Perhaps, when I can no longer give my 
testimony without shame for not having given it ere the innocent 
man suffered, thou wilt forget my claim ; and, indeed, thy pres- 
ent hesitation is a bad omen of thy future gratitude.” 

“Well, then, Calenus, what wouldst thou nave me pay 
thee.?” 

“ Thy life is very precious, and thy wealth is very great,” 
returned the priest, grinning. 

“ Wittier and more witty. But speak out — what shall be 
the sum ? ” 

“ Arbaces, I have heard that in thy secret treasury below, 
beneath those rude Oscan arches which prop thy stately halls, 
thou hast piles of gold, of vases, and of jewels, which might 
rival the receptacles of the wealth of the deified Nero. Tho« 
• The God of Silence. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


295 

mayst easily spare out of those piles enough to make Calenus 
among the richest priests of Pompeii, and yet not miss the 
loss." 

“ Come, Calenus," said Arbaces, winningly, and with a frank 
and generous air, “ thou art an old friend, and hast been a faith- 
ful servant. Thou canst have no wish to take away my life, 
nor I a desire to stint thy reward : thou shalt descend with me 
to that treasury thou referrest me to, thou shalt feast thine eyes 
with the blaze of uncounted gold and the sparkle of priceless 
gems ; and thou shalt, for thy own reward, bear away with 
thee this night as much as thou canst conceal beneath thy 
robes. Nay, when thou hast once seen what thy friend pos- 
sesses, thou wilt learn how foolish it would be to injure one 
who has so much to bestow. V/hen Glaucus is no more, thou 
shalt pay the treasury another visit. Speak I frankly and as a 
friend } " 

“ Oh, greatest, best of men ! " cried Calenus, almost weep- 
ing with joy, “ canst thou thus forgive my injurious doubts of 
thy justice, thy generosity ? " 

“ Hush 1 one other turn, and we will descend to the Oscan 
arches." 


CHAPTER XIII. 


The slave consults the oracle. — They who blind themselves the blind may 
fool. — Two new prisoners made in one night. 

Impatiently Nydia waited the arrival of the no less anxious 
Sosia. Fortifying his courage by plentiful potations of a better 
liquor than that provideo for the demon the credulous minis- 
trant stole into the blind girl’s chamber. 

“ Well, Sosia, and aa thou prepared ? Hast thou the bowl 
of pure water ? " 

“Verily, yes: but I tremble a little. You are sure I shall 
not see the demon ? I have heard that those gentlemen are by 
no means of a handsome person or a civil demeanor ’ 

“ Be assured 1 And hast thou left the garden-gate gently 
open ? " 

“ Yes ; and placed some beautiful nuts and apples on a 
little table close oy. ’ 

“ That’s well. And the gate is open now, so that the demon 
mav Dass through it < ' 

•• oureiy it is.” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


296 

“ Well, then, open this door ; there — leaveit just ajar. And 
now, Sosia, give me the lamp.” 

“ What i you will not extinguish it ? ” 

“ No ; but I must breathe my spell over its ray. There is 
a spirit in the fire. Seat thyself.” 

The slave obeyed ; and Nydia, after bending for some mo- 
ments silently over the lamp, rose and in a low voice chanted 
the following rude 

INVOCATION TO THE SPECTRE OF THE AIR. 

** Loved alike by Air and Water, 

Aye must be Thessalia’s daughter ; 

To us, Olympian hearts, are given 
Spells that draw the moon from heaven. 

All that Egypt’s learning wrought — 

All that Persia’s Magian taught — 

Won from song, or wrung from flowers. 

Or whisper’d low by fiend — are ours. 

Spectre of the viewless air 

Hear the blind Thessalian’s prayer; 

By Erictho’s art, that shed 
Dews of life when life was fled 
By lone Ithaca’s wise king. 

Who could wake the crystal spring 
To the voice of prophecy : — 

By the lost Eurydice, 

Summon’d from the shadowy throng, 

At the muse-son’s magic song : — 

By the Colchian’s awful charms, 

When fair-hair’d Jason left her arms 
Spectre of the airy halls, 

One who owns thee duly calls ! 

Breathe along the brimming bowl. 

And instruct the fearful soul 
In the shadowy things that lie 
Dark in dim futurity. 

Come, wild demon of the air, 

Answer to thy votary’s prayer ; 

Come ! oh, come ! 

And no god on heaven or earth— 

Not the Paphian Queen of Mirth, 

Nor the vivid Lord of Light, 

Nor the triple Maid of Night, 

Nor the Thunderer’s self, sh^l be 
Blest and honored more than thee 1 
Come I oh, come 1 ” 

** The spectre is certainly coming,” said Sosia. “ I feel him 
running along my hair ! ” 

Place thy bowl of water on the ground. Now, then, giv9 
me thy napkin, and let me fold up thy face and eyes.” 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII, 


29? 

** Ay ! that’s always the custom with these charms. Not sci 
tight, though : gently — gently 1 ” 

“ There — thou canst not see ? ” 

‘‘ See, by Jupiter ! No 1 nothing but darkness.” 

‘‘ Address, then, to the spectre whatever question thoi* 
wouldst ask him, in a low-whispered voice, three times. If thy 
question is answered in the affirmative, thou wilt hear the water 
ferment and bubble before the demon breathes upon it ; if in 
the negative, the water will be quite silent.” 

“ But you will not play any trick with the water, eh ? ” 

“ Let me place the bowl under thy feet — so. Now thon 
wilt perceive that I cannot touch it without thy knowledge.” 

“Very fair. Now, then, O Bacchus I befriend me. Thou 
knowest that I have always loved thee better than all the other 
gods, and I will dedicate to thee that silver cup I stole last year 
from the burly carptor (butler), if thou wilt but befriend me 
with this water-loving demon. And thou, O spirit ! listen and 
hear me. Shall I be enabled to purchase my freedom next 
year Thou knowest : for, as thou livest in the air, the birds * 
have doubtless acquainted thee with every secret of this house, 
thou knowest that I have filched and pilfered all that 1 honestly 
— that is, safely — could lay finger upon for the last three years, 
and I yet want two thousand sesterces of the full sum. Shall I 
be able, O good Spirit I to make up the deficiency in the course 
of this year? Speak — Hal does the water bubble ? No; all 
is still as a tomb. — Well, then, if not this year, in two years ? — 
Ah! I hear something; the demon is scratching at the door; 
he’ll be here presently. — In two years, my good fellow ? come, 
now, two ; that’s a very reasonable time. What I dumb still ! 
Two years and a half — three — ^four ? Ill fortune to you, friend 
demon ! You are not a lady, that’s clear, or you would not 
keep silence so long. Five — six — ^sixty years ? and may Plato 
seize you I I’ll ask no more.” And Sosia, in a rage, kicked 
down the water over his legs. He then, after much fumbling, 
and more cursing, managed to extricate his head from the napkin 
in which it was completely folded — stared round — and dis- 
covered that he was in the dark. 

“ What, ho I Nydia ; the lamp is gone. Ah, traitress ; and 
thou art gone too; but I’ll catch 'thee — thou shalt smart for 
this.” 

The slave groped his way to the door ; it was bolted from 
without : he was a prisoner instead of Nydia. What could ha 
do ? He did not dare to knock loud — to call out — lest Arh^.ces 

* Who are supposed to know all secrets. The same superstition prevails 
in the East, and is not without example, also, in our northern legends. 


*98 THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII, 

should overhear him, and discover how he had been duped; 
and Nydia, meanwhile, had probably already gained the garden* 
gate, and was fast on her escape. 

“ But,” thought he, “ she will go home, or, at least, be 
somewhere in the city. To-morrow, at dawn, when the slaves 
are at work in the peristyle, I can make myself heard ; then I 
can go forth and seek her. I shall be sure to find and bring 
her back, before Arbaces knows a word of the matter. Ah I 
that’s the best plan. Little traitress, my fingers itch at thee, 
and to leave only a bowl of water, too 1 Had it been wine, it 
would have been some comfort.” 

While Sosia, thus entrapped, was lamenting his fate, and 
revolving his schemes to repossess himself of Nydia, the blind 
girl, with that singular precision and dexterous rapidity of mo* 
tion, which, we have before observed, was peculiar to her, had 
passed lightly along the peristyle, threaded the opposite passage 
that led into the garden, and, with a beating heart, was about 
to proceed towards the gate, when she suddenly heard the 
sound of approaching steps, and distinguished the dreaded 
voice of Arbaces himself. She paused for a moment in doubt 
and terror ; then suddenly it flashed across her recollection that 
there was another passage which was little used except for the 
admission of the fair partakers of the Egyptian’s secret revels, 
and which wound along the basement of that massive fabric 
towards a door which also communicated with the garden. By 
good fortune it might be open. At that thought, she hastily 
retraced her steps, descended the narrow stairs at the right, 
and was soon at the entrance of the passage. Alas ! the door 
at tne entrance was closed and secured. While she was yet 
assuring herself that it was indeed locked, she heard behind 
her the voice of Calenus, and, a moment after, that of Arbaces 
in low reply. She could not stay there ; they were probably 
passing to tha*^ very door. She sprang onward, and felt herself 
in unknown ground. The air grew damp and chill ; that reas- 
sured her. She thought she might be among the cellars of the 
luxurious mansion, or, at least, in some rude spot not likely to 
be visited by its haughty lord, when, again, her quick ear caught 
steps and the sound of voices. On, on, she hurried, extending 
her arms, which now frequently encountered pillars of thick 
and massive form. With a tact, doubled in acuteness by her 
fear, she escaped these perils, and continued her way, the air 
growing more and more damp as she proceeded ; yet, still, as 
she ever and anon paused for breath, she heard the advancing 
steps and the indistinct murmur of voices. At length she was 
abruptly stopped by a waU that seemed the limit of her path. 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


299 

Was there no ^pot in which she could hide ? No aperture ? no 
pvity ? There was none ! She stopped, and wrung her hands 
in despair ; then again, nerved as the voices neared upon her, 
she hurried on by the side of the wall ; and coming suddenly 
against one of the sharp buttresses that here and there jutted 
boldly forth, she fell to the ground. Though much bruised, 
her senses did not leave her ; she uttered no cry , nay, she 
hailed the accident that had led her to something like a sc reen ; 
and creeping close up to the angle formed by the buttress, so 
that on one side at least she was sheltered from view, she 
gathered her slight and small form into its smallest compass, 
and breathlessly awaited her fate. 

Meanwhile Arbaces and the priest were taking their way 
to that secret chamber whose stores were so vaunted by the 
Egyptian. They were in a vast subterianean atrium, or hall ; 
the low roof was supported by short, thick pillars of an archi- 
tecture far remote from the Grecian graces of that luxuriant 
period. The single and pale lamp, which Arbaces bore, shed 
out an imj>erfect ray over the bare and rugged walls, in which 
the huge stones, without cement, were fitted curiously and un- 
couthly into each other. The disturbed reptiles glared dully 
on the intruders, and then crept into the shadow of the 
walls. 

Calenus shivered as he looked around and breathed the 
damp, unwholesome air. 

“ Yet,'* said Arbaces, with a smile, perceiving his shudder, 
** it is these rude abodes that furnish the luxuries of the halls 
above. They are like the laborers of the world — we despise 
their ruggedness, yet they feed the very pride that disdains 
them.** 

“ And whither goes yon dim gallery to the left ? ’* asked 
Calenus ; “ in this depth of gloom it seems without limit, as if 
winding into Hades.’* 

“ On the contrary, it does but conduct to the upper day,* 
answered Arbaces, carelessly : “it is to the right that we steer 
to our bourn.’* 

The hall, like many in the more habitable regions of Pom- 
peii, branched off at the extremity into two wings or passages ; 
the length of which, not really great, was to the eye consider- 
ably exaggerated by the sullen gloom against which the lamp 
so faintly struggled. To the right of these alcB the two com- 
rades now directed their steps. 

“ The gay Glaucus wih be lodged to-morrow in apartments 
not much drier, and far less spacious than this,** said Calenus, 
1^ they nassed by the very spot where, completely wrapped 


500 SE last da YS of POMPEII. 

Ln the shadow of the broad, projecting buttress, cowered tilt 
Thessalian. 

“ Ay, but then he will have dry room, and ample enough, 
in the arena on the following day. And to think,” continued 
Arbaces, slowly, and very deliberately — “ to think that a word 
of thine could save him, and consign Arbaces to his doom ! 
That word shall never be spoken,” said Calenus. 

“ Right, my Calenus 1 it never shall,” returned Arbaces^ 
familiarly leaning his arm on the priest’s shoulder : “ and, now, 
halt — we are at the door.” 

The light trembled against a small door deep set in the 
wall, and guarded strongly by many plates and bindings of 
iron, that intersected the rough and dark wood= From his 
girdle Arbaces now drew a small ring, holding three or four 
short but strong keys. Oh, how beat the griping heart of 
Calenus, as he heard the rusty wards growl, as if resenting the 
admission to the treasures they guarded I 

Enter, my friend,” said Arbaces, “ while I hold the lamp 
on high, that thou mayst glut thine eyes on the yellow 
heaps.” 

The impatient Calenus did not wait to be twice invited ; he 
hastened towards the aperture. 

Scarce had he crossed the threshold, when the strong hand 
of Arbaces plunged him forwards. 

word shall never be spoken/** said the Egjrptian, with 
a loud, exultant laugh, and closed the door upon the priest. 

Calenus had been precipitated down several steps, but not 
feeling at the moment the pain of his fall, he sprang up again 
to the door, and beating at it fiercely with his clenched fist, 
he cried aloud in what seemed more a beast’s howl than a 
human voice, so keen was his agony and despair : Oh, release 
me, release me, and I will ask no gold ! ” 

The words but imperfectly penetrated the massive door, 
and Arbaces again laughed. Then, stamping his foot violently 
rejoined, perhaps to give vent to his long-stifled passions — 

“ All the gold of Dalmatia,” cried he, “ will not buy thee a 
crust of bread. Starve, wretch ! thy dying groans will never 
wake even the echo of these vast halls : nor will the air ever 
reveal, as thou gnawest, in thy desperate famine, thy flesh 
from thy bones, that so perishes the man who threatened, and 
could have undone, Arbaces ! Farewell ! ” 

“ Oh, pity — mercy I Inhuman villain ; was it for this ” 

The rest of the sentence was lost to the ear of Arbaces as 
he passed backward along the dim hall. A toad, plump and 
bloated, lay unmoving before his path ,• the rays of the lamp 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


301 

fell upon its unshaped hideousness and red upward eye, Ar* 
baces turned aside that he might not harm it. 

“ Thou art loathsome and obscene,” he muttered, “ but 
thou cansl not injure me; therefore thou art safe in my path.” 

The ciiCs of Calenus, dulled and choked by the barrier 
that confined him, yet faintly reached the ear of the Egyptian. 
He paused and listened intently. 

“TWs is unfortunate,” thought he; “for I cannot sail till 
that voice is dumb forever. My stores and treasures lie, not 
in yon dungeon, it is true, but in the opposite wing. My 
slaves, as they move them, must not hear his voice. But what 
fear of that ? In three days, if he still survive, his accents, 
by my father’s beard, must be weak enough, then ! — no, they 
could not pierce even through his tomb. By Isis, it is cold 1 
- — I long for a deep draught of the spiced Falernian.” 

With that the remorseless Egyptian drew his gown closer 
round him, and resought the upper air. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Nydia accosts Calenus. 

What words of terror, yet of hope, had Nydia overheard ! 
The next day Glaucus was to be condemned ; yet there lived 
one who could save him, and adjudge Arbaces to his doom, 
and that one breathed within a few steps of her hiding-place I 
She caught his cries and shrieks — his imprecations, his prayers, 
though they fell choked and muffled on her ear. He was im- 
prisoned, but she knew the secret of his cell : could she but 
escape — could she but seek the praetor, he might yet in time 
be given to light, and preserve the Athenian. Her emotions 
almost stifled her ; her brain reeled — she felt her sense give 
way — ^but by a violent effort she mastered herself ; and after 
listening intently for several minutes, till she was convinced 
that Arbaces had left the space to solitude and herself, she 
crept on as her ear guided her to the very door that had closed 
upon Calenus. Here she more distinctly caught his accents 
of terror and despair. Thrice she atteronted to speak, and 
thrice her voice failed to penetrate the folds of the heavy door. 
At length finding the lock, she applied her lips to its small 
aperture, and the prisoner distinctly heard a soft tone breathe 
his name. 


302 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


His blood curdled — his hair stood on end. That awfii 
solitude, what mysterious, and preternatural being could pene- 
trate ! “ Who’s there ? ” he cried, in new alarm ; “ what spectre 

— what dread larva., calls upon the lost Calenus ? ” 

“ Priest,” replied the Thessalian, “ unknown to Arbace^ 
I have been, by the permission of the gods, a witness to his 
perfidy. If I myself can escape from these walls, I may save 
thee. But let thy voice reach my ear through this narrow pas- 
sage, and answer what I ask.” 

“ Ah, blessed spirit,” said the priest, exultingly, and obey- 
ing the suggestion of Nydia, save me, and I will sell the very 
cups on the altar to pay thy kindness.” 

“ I want not thy gold — I want thy secret. Did I hear 
aright ? — Canst thou save the Athenian Glaucus from the charge 
against his life ? ” 

“I can — I can ! — therefore (may the Furies blast the foul 
Egyptian !) hath Arbaces snared me thus, and left me to starve 
and rot ! ” 

“ They accuse the Athenian of murder ; canst thou dis- 
prove the accusation ? ” 

“ Only free me, and the proudest head of Pompeii is not 
more safe than his. I saw the deed done — I saw Arbaces 
strike the blow ; I can convict the true murderer and acquit 
the innocent man. But if I perish, he dies also. Dost thou 
interest thyself for him ? Oh, blessed stranger, in my heart is 
the urn which condemns or frees him ! ” 

“ And thou will give full evidence of what thou knowest ? ” 

“ Will ! — Oh ! were hell at my feet — yes ! Revenge on the 
false Egyptian ! revenge ! revenge ! revenge ! ” 

As through his ground teeth Calenus shrieked forth those 
last words, Nydia felt that in his worst passions was her cer- 
tainty of his justice to the Athenian. Her heart beat : was it — • 
was it to be her proud destiny to preserve her idolized — her 
adored ? “ Enough,” said she ; “ the powers that conducted 

me hither will carry me through all. Yes, I feel that I shall 
deliver thee. Wait in patience and hope.” 

But be cautious, be prudent, sweet stranger. Attempt 
not to appeal to Arbaces — he is marble. Seek the praetor — 
say what thou knowest — obtain his writ of search ; bring sol- 
diers, and smiths of cunning — these locks are wondrous strong I 
Time flies — I may starve — starve ! if you are not quick ! Go 
— ^go ! Yet stay — it is horrible to be alone ! — the air is like 
a charnel ! — and the scorpions — ha ! and the pale larvae ! Oh ! 
Stay 1 ” 

“ Nay,” said Nydia, terrified by the terror of the priest, and 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


303 

anxious to confer with herself, — nay, for thy sake, I must de- 
part. Take Hope for thy companion — farewell ! ” 

So saying, she glided away, and felt with extended arms 
along the pillared space until she had gained the farther end 
of the hall and the mouth of the passage that led to the upper 
air. But there she paused; she felt that it would be more 
safe to wait awhile, until the night was so far blended with the 
morning that the whole house would be buried in sleep, and so 
that she might quit it unobserved. She, therefore, once more 
laid herself down, and counted the weary moments. In her 
sanguine heart, joy was the predominant emotion. Glaucus 
was in deadly peril — but she should save him ! 


CHAPTER XV. 

Arbaces and lone. — Nydia gains the garden. — Will she escape and save the 
Athenian ? 

When Arbaces had warmed his veins by large draughts of 
that spiced and perfumed wine so valued by the luxurious, he 
felt more than usually elated and exultant of heart. There is 
a pride in triumphant ingenuity, not less felt, perhaps, though 
its object be guilty. Our vain human nature hugs itself in 
the consciousness of superior craft and self-obtained success 
— afterwards comes the horrible reaction of remorse. 

But remorse was not a feeling which Arbaces was likely 
ever to experience for the fate of the base Calenus. He swept 
from his remembrance the thought of the priest’s agonies and 
lingering death ; he felt only that a great danger was passed, 
and a possible foe silenced ; all left to him now would be to 
account to the priesthood for the disappearance of Calenus : 
and this he imagined it would not be difficult to do. Calenus 
had often been employed by him in various religious missions 
to the neighboring cities. On some such errand he could now 
assert that he had been sent, with offerings to the shrines of 
Isis at Herculaneum and Neapolis, placatory of the goddess for 
the recent mm der of her priest Apaecides. When Calenus had 
expired, his body might be thrown, previous to the Egyptian’s 
departure from Pompeii, into the deep stream of the Sarnus ,• 
and when discovered, suspicion would probably fall upon the 
Nazarene atheists, as an act of revenge for the death of Clin, 
thus at the arena. After rapidly running over these plans for 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


304 

screening himself, Arbaces dismissed at once from his mind all 
recollection of the wretched priest ; and, animated by the suc- 
cess which had lately crowned all his schemes, he surrendered 
his thoughts to lone. The last time he had seen her, she had 
driven him from her presence by a reproachful and bitter scorn, 
which his arrogant nature was unable to endure. He now felt 
emboldened once more to renew that interview ; for his passion 
for her was like similar feelings in other men — it made him rest* 
less for her presence, even though in that presence he was ex- 
asperated and humbled. From delicacy to her grief he laid not 
aside his dark and unfestive robes, but, renewing the perfumes 
on his raven locks, and arranging his tunic in his most become 
ing folds, he sought the chamber of the Neapolitan. Accost- 
ing the slave in attendance without, he inquired if lone had yet 
retired to rest ; and learning that she was still up, and unusually 
quiet and composed, he ventured into her presence.; He found 
his beautiful ward sitting before a small table, and leaning her 
face upon both her hands in the attitude of thought. Yet the 
expression of the face itself possessed not its wonted bright and 
Psyche-like expression of sweet intelligence ; the lips were apart 
— the eyes vacant and unheeding — and the long dark hair, fall- 
ing neglected and dishevelled upon her neck, gave by the con- 
trast additional paleness to a cheek which had already lost the 
roundness of its contour. 

Arbaces gazed upon her a moment ere he advanced. She, 
too, lifted up her eyes ; and when she saw who was the intruder, 
shut them with an expression of pain, but did not stir. 

“ Ah ! ” said Arbaces, in a low and earnest tone, as he re- 
spectfully, nay, humbly, advanced and seated himself at a little 
distance from the table — “ Ah ! that my death could remove thy 
hatred, then would I gladly die ! Thou wrongest me, lone ; 
but I will bear the wrong without a murmur, only let me see 
thee sometimes. Chide, reproach, scorn me, if thou wilt — I will 
teach myself to bear it. And is not even thy bitterest tone 
sweeter to me than the music of the most artful lute ? In thy 
silence the world seems to stand still — a stagnation curdles up 
the veins of the earth — there is no earth, no life, without the 
light of thy countenance and the melody of thy voice.” 

“ Give me back my brother and my betrothed,” said lone, 
in a calm and imploring tone, and a few large tears rolled un- 
heeded down her cheeks. 

“ Would that I could restore the one and save the other ! ” 
returned Arbaces, with apparent emotion. “ Yes ; to make thee 
happy I would renounce my ill-fated love, and gladly join thy 
hand to the Athenian’s. Perhaos he will vet come unscathed 


LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


305 

from his trial [Arbaces had prevented her learning that the trial 
had already commenced] ; if so thou art free to judge or con- 
demn him thyself. And think not, O lone, that I would follow 
thee longer with a prayer of love. I know it is in vain. Suf- 
fer me only to weep — to mourn with thee. Forgive a violence 
deeply repented, and that shall offend no more. Let me be to 
thee only what I once was — a friend, a father, a protector. Ah, 
lone ! spare me and forgive.” 

“ I forgive thee. Save but Glaucus, and I will renounce 
him. O mighty Arbaces ! thou art powerful in evil or in good ; 
save the Athenian, and the poor lone will never see him more.” 
^ she spoke, she rose with weak and trembling limbs, and fall- 
ing at his feet, she clasped his keees : “ Oh ! if thou really lovest 
me — if thou art human — remember my father’s ashes, remember 
my childhood, think of all the hours we passed happily together, 
and save my Glaucus ! ” 

Strange convulsions shook the frame of the Egyptian ; his 
features worked fearfully — he turned his face aside, and said, 
in a hollow voice, “ If I could save him, even now, I would ; but 
the Roman law is stem and sharp. Yet if I could succeed — if I 
could and set him free — wouldst thou be mine — my bride ? " 

“ Thine ? ” repeated lone, rising : “ thine ! — thy bride ? My 
brother’s blood is unavenged : who slew him ? O Nemesis, can 
I even sell, for the life of Glaucus, thy solemn trust ? Arbaces 
— thine I Never.” 

lone, lone ! ” cried Arbaces, passionately ; “ why these 
mysterious words ? — why dost thou couple my name with the 
thought of thy brother’s death } ” 

My dreams couple it — and dreams are from the gods.” 

Vain fantasies all ! Is it for a dream that thou wouldst 
wrong the innocent, and hazard thy sole chance of saving thy 
lover’s life ? ” 

“ Hear me ! ” said lone, speaking firmly, and with a de- 
liberate and solemn voice: ‘‘if Glaucus be saved by thee, I 
will never be borne to his home a bride. But I cannot mastei 
the horror of other rites : I cannot wed with thee. Interrupt 
me not ; but mark me, Arbaces ! — ^if Glaucus die, on that same 
day I baffle thine arts, and leave to thy love only my dust ! Yes 
— thou mayst put the knife and the poison from my reach — 
thou mayst imprison — ^thou mayst chain me, but the brave soul 
resolved to escape is never without means. These hands, naked 
and unarmed though they be, shad tear away the bonds of life. 
Fetter them, and these lips shall firmly refuse the air. Thou 
art learned — thou hast read how women have died rather than 
meet dishonor. If Glaucus perish, I will not v'^orthily linger 

20 


3o6 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


behind him. By all the gods of the heaven, and the ocean, and 
the earth, I devote myself to death ! I have said ! ” 

High, proud, dilating in her stature, like one inspired, the 
air and the voice of lone struck an awe into the breast of her 
listener. 

“ Brave heart ! said he, after a short pause ; “ thou art in- 
deed worthy to be mine. Oh ! that 1 should have dreamed of 
such a partner in my lofty destinies, and never found it but in 
thee ! lone,” he continued rapidly, “dost thou not see that we 
are born for each other ? Canst thou not recognize something 
kindred to thine own energy — thine own courage — in this high 
and self-dependent soul "i We were formed to unite our sym- 
pathies — formed to breathe a new spirit into this hackneyed and 
gross world — formed for the mighty ends which my soul sweep- 
ing down the gloom of time foresees with a prophet’s vision* 
With a resolution equal to thine own, I defy thy threats of an 
inglorious suicide. 1 hail thee as my own ! Queen of climes 
undarkened by the eagle’s wing, unravaged by his beak, I bow 
before thee in homage and in awe — but I claim thee in worship 
and in love ! Together will we cross the ocean — together will we 
found our realm ; and far distant ages shall acknowledge the long 
race of kings born from the marriage-bed of Arbaces and lone !” 

“ Thou :-avest ! These mystic declamations are suited rather 
to some palsied crone selling charms in the market-place than 
to the wise Arbaces. 'I’Lou hast heard my resolution — it is fixed 
as the fates themselves. Orcus has heard my vow, and it is 
written in the book of the unforgetful Hades. Atone, then, O 
Arbaces ! — Aton^ the '^ast ; convert hatred into regard — ven- 
geance into gratitude ; preserve one who shall never be thy rival. 
These are acts suited to thy original nature, which gives forth 
sparks of something high and noble. They weigh in the scales 
of the Kings Death : they turn the balance on that day when 
the disembodied soul stands shivering and dismayed between 
Tartarus and Elysium : they gladden the heart in life, better and 
longer than the reward of a momentary passion. Oh, Arbaces ! 
hear me, and be swayed ! ” 

“ Enough, lone. All that I can do for Glaucus shall be 
done ; but blame me not if I fail. Inquire of my foes, even, if 
I have not sought, i^ I do not seek, to turn aside the sentence from 
his head ; and judge me accordingly. Sleep, then, lone. Night 
wanes ; I leave thee to its rest — and mayest thou have kinder 
dreams of one who has no existence but in thine.” 

Without waiting a reply, Arbaces hastily withdrew ; afraid, 
perhaps, to trust himself further to the passionate prayer of lone, 
which racked him with jealousy, even while it touched him ta 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


30? 

fompassion. But compassion itself came too late. Had lone 
even pledged him her hand as his reward, he could not now — 
his evidence given — the populace excited — have saved the 
Athenian. Still, made sanguine by his very energy of mind, 
he threw himself on the chances of the future, and believed he 
should yet triumph over the woman that had so entangled his 
passions. 

As his attendants assisted to unrobe him for the night, the 
thought of Nydia flashed across him. He felt it was necessary 
that lone should never learn of her lover’s frenzy, lest it might 
excuse his imputed crime ; and it was possible that her attend- 
ants might inform her that Nydia was under his roof, and she 
might desire ' o see ner. As this idea crossed him, he turned to 
one of his freedmen — 

“ Go, Callias,” said he, “ forthwith to Sosia, and tell him 
that on no pretence is he to suffer the blind slave Nydia out of 
her chamber. But, stay — first seek those in attendance upon 
my ward, and caution them not to inform her that the blind girl 
is under my roof. Go — quick ! ” 

The freedman hastened to obey. After having discharged 
his commission with respect to lone’s attendants, he sought the 
worthy Sosia. He found him not in the little cell which was ap- 
portioned for his cubiculum ; he called his name aloud, and from 
Nydia’s chamber, close at hand, he heard the voice of Sosia 
reply — 

“ Oh, Callias, is it you that I hear ? — the gods be praised I 
Open the door, I pray you ! ” 

Callias withdrew the bolt, and the rueful face of Sosia hastily 
obtruded itself. 

“ What ! — in the chamber with that young girl, Sosia ! Froh 
pudor I Are there no fruits ripe enough on the wall, but that 
thou must tamper with such green ” 

“ Name not the little witch !” interrupted Sosia, impatiently; 
" she will be my ruin ! ” And he forthwith imparted to Callias 
the history of the Air Demon, and the escape of the Thessalian. 

“ Hang thyself, then, unhappy Sosia ? I am just charged 
from Arbaces with a message to thee ; — on no account art 
thou to suffer her, even for a moment, from that chamber ! ” 

“ Me miserum ! ” exclaimed the slave. “ What can I do ? 
— ^by this time she may have visited half Pompeii. But to- 
morrow I will undertake to catch her in her old haunts. Keep 
but my counsel, my dear Callias.” 

“ I will do all that friendship can, consistent with my own 
safety. But are you sure she has left the house ? — she may be 
hiding here yet.” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POM FELL 




“ How is that possible ? She could easily have gained the 
garden ; and the door, as I told thee, was open.” 

“ Nay, not so ; for, at that very hour thou specifiest, Arbaces 
was in the garden with the priest Calenus. I went there in 
search of some herbs for my master's bath to-morrow. I saw 
the table set out ; but the gate I am sure was shut : depend 
upon it, that Calenus entered by the garden, and naturally 
closed the door after him.” 

“ But it was not locked.” 

“ Yes ; for I myself, angry at a negligence which might 
expose the bronzes in the peristyle to the mercy of any rob- 
ber, turned the key, took it away, and — as I did not see the 
proper slave to whom to give it, or I should have rated him 
finely — here it actually is, still in my girdle.” 

“ Oh, merciful Bacchus I I did not pray to thee in vain, 
after all. Let us not lose a moment I Let us to the garden 
instantly — she may yet be there ! ” 

The good-natured Callias consented to assist the slave; 
and after vainly searching the chambers at hand, and the 
recesses of the peristyle, they entered the garden. 

It was about this time that Nydia had resolved to quit her 
hiding-place and venture forth on her way. Lightly, tremu- 
lously, holding her breath, which ever and anon broke forth 
in quick convulsive gasps, — now gliding by the flower-wreathed 
columns that bordered the peristyle — now darkening the still 
moonshine that fell over its tessellated centre — now ascending 
the terrace of the garden — now gliding amidst the gloomy and 
breathless trees, she gained the fatal door — to find it locked ! 
We have all seen that expression of pain, of uncertainty, of 
fear, which a sudden disappointment of touch, if I may use the 
expression, casts over the face of the blind. But what words 
can paint the intolerable woe, the sinking of the whole heart, 
which was now vbible on the features of the Thessalian? 
Again and again her small, quivering hands wandered to and 
fro the inexorable door. P(X)r thing that thou wert ! in vain 
had been all thy noble courage, thy innocent craft, thy doub- 
lings to escape the hound and huntsman ! Within but a few 
yards from thee, laughing at thy endeavors — thy despair — 
knowing thou wert now their own, and watching with cruel 
patience their own moment to seize their prey — thou art saved 
from seeing thy pursuers ! 

“ Hush, Callias ! — let her go on. Let us see what she will 
do when she has convinced herself that the door is honest.” 

“ Look 1 she raises her face to the heavens — she mutters— 
she sinks down despondent 1 Nol by Pollur, has some 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


3 °^ 

new sciieme ? She will not resign herself I By Jupiter, a 
tou^ spirit! See, she springs up — she retraces her steps — 
she thinks of some other chancel I advise thee, Sosia, to 
delay* no longer : seize her ere she quit the garden, — now ! 

“ Ah I runaway I I have thee — eh ? said Sosia, seizing, 
upon the unhappy Nydia, 

As a hare's last human cry in the fangs of a dogs — as the 
sharp voice of terror uttered by a sleep-walker suddenly awak- 
ened — broke the shrieks of the blind girl, when she felt the 
abrupt grip of her jailer. It was a shriek of such utter agony, 
such entire despair, that it might have rung hauntingly in 
your ears forever. She felt as if the last plank of the sinking 
Glaucus were torn from his clasp. It had been a suspense of 
life and death ; and death had now won the game. 

“ Gods 1 that cry will alarm the house 1 Arbaces sleeps 
full lightly. Gag her I ” cried Callias. 

Ah i here is the very napkin with which the young witch 
conjured away my reason I Come 1 that’s right ; now thou 
art dumb as well as blind.” 

And, catching the light weight in his arms, Sosia soon 
gained the house, and reached the chamber from which Nydia 
had escaped. There, removing the gag, he left her to a soli- 
tude so racked and terrible, that out of Hades its anguish 
could scarcely be exceeded. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

The sorrow of boon companions for our afflictions. — The dungeon and its 

victims. 

It was now late on the third and last day of the trial of 
Glaucus and Olinthus. A few hours after the court had broke 
up and judgment been given, a small party of the fashionable 
youth at Pompeii were assembled round the fastidious board 
of Lepidus. 

“ So Glaucus denies his crime to the last ? ” said Clodius, 

“ Yes ; but the testimony of Arbaces was convincing ; he 
saw the blow given,” answered Lepidus. 

“ What could have been the cause ? ” 

“ Why, the priest was a gloomy and sullen fellow. He prob- 
ably rated Glaucus soundly about his gay life and gaming 
habits, and ultimately swore he would not consent to his mar- 
riage with lone. High words arose ; Glaucus seemed to have 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMFEII, 


310 

l)een full of the passionate gods, and struck in sudden exaspeT' 
ation. The excitement of wine, the desperation of abrupt re* 
morse, brought on the delirium under which he suffered fof 
gome days ; and I can readily imagine, poor fellow ! that, yet 
confused by that delirium, he is even now unconscious of the 
crime he committed ! Such, at least, is the shrewd conjecture 
<ii Arbaces, who seems to have been most kind and forbearing 
m his testimony.” 

“ Yes ; he has made himself generally popular by it. But; 
in consideration of these extenuating circumstances, the senate 
should have relaxed the sentence.” 

“ And they would have done so, but for the people ; but 
they were outrageous. The priest had spared no pains to excite 
them ; and they imagined — the ferocious brutes I — because 
Glaucus was a rich man and a gentleman, that he was likely to 
escape ; and therefore they were inveterate against him, and 
doubly resolved upon his sentence. It seems, by some acci- 
dent or other, that he was never formally enrolled as a Roman 
citizen ; and thus the senate is deprived of the power to resist 
the people, though, after all, there was but a majority of three 
against him. Ho ! the Chian 1 ” 

“ He looks sadly altered ; but how composed and fearless I ” 

“ Ay, we shall see if his firmness will last over to-morrow. 
But what merit in courage, when that atheistical hound, Olin- 
thus, manifested the same } ” 

The blasphemer ! Yes,” said Lepidus, with pious wrath* 
“ no wonder that one of the decurions was, but two days ago. 
Struck dead by lightning in a serene sky.* The gods feel ven- 
geance against Pompeii while the vile desecrator is alive within 
Its walls.” 

“ Yet so lenient was the senate, that had he but expressed 
his penitence, and scattered a few grains of incense on the altar 
of Cybele, he would have been let off. I doubt whether these 
Nazarenes, had they the state religion, would be as tolerant to 
us, supposing we had kicked down the image of their Deity* 
blasphemed their rites, and denied their faith.” 

“ They give Glaucus one chance, in consideration of the 
circumstances ; they allow him, against the lion, the use of the 
same stilus wherewith he smote the priest.” 

“ Hast thou seen the lion .? hast thou looked at kis teeth and 
fangs, and wilt thou call that a chance.? Why, sword and 
buckler would be mere reed and papyrus against the rush of 

♦ Pliny says that, immediately before the eruption of Vesuvius, one o| 
tfie (Ucuriones municipaUs was — though the heaven was unclouded — struek 
4ead by lightning. 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


311 

the mighty beast ! No, I think the true mercy has been, not to 
leave him in suspense , and it was therefore fortunate for him 
that our benign laws aie slow to pronounce, but swift to execute ; 
and that the games of the amphitheatre bad been, by a sort of 
providence, so long since fixed for to-morrow. He who awaits 
death, dies twice.” 

“ As for the Atheist,” said Clodius, “ he is to cope the 
grim tiger naked-handed. Well, these combats are past bet- 
ting on. Who will take the odds ? ” 

A peal of laughter announced the ridicule of the question. 

“ Poor Clodius ! ” said the host ; “ to lose a friend is some- 
thing ; but to find no one to bet on the chance of his escape is 
a worse misfortune to thee.” 

“ Why, it is provoking ; it would have been some consola- 
tion to him and to me to think he was useful to the last.” 

The people,” said the grave Pansa, “ are all delighted 
with the result. They were so much afraid the sports at the 
amphitheatre would go off without a criminal for the beasts 
and now, to get two such criminals is indeed a joy for the 
poor fellows I They work hard ; they ought to have some 
amusement.” 

“ There speaks the popular Pansa, who never moves with- 
out a string of clients as long as an Indian triumph. He is 
always prating about the people. Gods 1 he will end by being 
a Gracchus ! ” 

“ Certainly I am no insolent patrician,” said Pansa, with a 
generous air. 

“ Well,” observed Lepidus, “ it would have been assuredly 
dangerous to have been merciful at the eve of beast-fight. If 
-ever /, though a Roman bred and born, come to be tried, pray 
Jupiter there may be either no beasts in the vivaria^ 01 plenty 
of criminals in the jail.” 

“And pray,” said one of the party, “what has become of 
the poor girl whom Glaucus was to have married A widow 
without being a bride — that is hard ! ” 

“ Oh,” returned Clodius, “ she is safe under the protection 
of her guardian, Arbaces. It was natural she should go to him 
when she had lost both lover and brother.” 

“ By sweet Venus, Glaucus was fortunate among the women! 
They say the rich Julia was in love with him.” 

“A mere fable, my friend,” said Clodius, coxcombically; 
“ I was with her to-day. If any feeling of the sort she ever 
conceived, I flatter myself that / have consoled her.” 

“Hush, gentlemen I” said Pansa; “do you not know that 
Clodius is emrloyed at the house of Diomed m blowing hard at 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


511 

rfie torch ? It begins to burn, and will soon shine on the bright 
shrine of Hymen.” 

“ Is it so ? ” said Lepidus. “ What ! Clodius become a 
married man ? — Fie ! ” 

“ Never fear,” answered Clodius ; old Diomed is delighted 
at the notion of marrying his daughter to a nobleman, and will 
come down largely with the sesterces. You will see that I shall 
not lock them up in the atrium. It will be a white day for his 
jolly friends, when Clodius marries an heiress.” 

“ Say you so ? ” cried Lepidus ; “ come, then, a full cup to 
the health of the fair Julia ! ” 

While such was the conversation — one not discordant to the 
tone of mind common among the dissipated of that day, and 
which might perhaps, a century ago, have found an echo in the 
looser circles of Paris — while such, I say, was the conversation 
in the gaudy triclinium of Lepidus, far different the scene which 
scowled before the young Athenian. 

After his condemnation, Glaucus was admitted no more to 
the gentle guardianship of Sallust, the only friend of his distress. 
He was led along the forum till the guards stopped at a small 
door by the side of the temple of Jupiter. You may see the 
place still. The door opened in the centre in a somewhat sin- 
gular fashion, revolving round on its hinges, as it were, like a 
modern turnstile, so as only to leave half the threshold open at 
the same time. Through this narrow aperture they thrust the 
prisoner, placed before him a loaf and a pitcher of water, and 
left him to darkness, and, as he thought, to solitude. So sudden 
had been that revolution of fortune which had prostrated him 
from the palmy height of youthful pleasure and successful love 
to the lowest abyss of ignominy, and the horror of a most bloody 
death, that he could scarcely convince himself that he was not 
held in the meshes of some fearful dream. His elastic and 
glorious frame had triumphed over a potion, the greater part of 
which he had fortunately not drained. He had recovered sense 
and consciousness, but still a dim and misty depression clung to 
his nerves and darkened his mind. His natural courage, and 
the Greek nobility of pride, enabled him to vanquish all unbe^ 
coming apprehension, and, in the judgment-court, to face his 
awful lot with a steady mien and unquailing eye. But the con- 
sciousness of innocence scarcely sufficed to support him when 
the gaze of men no longer excited his haughty valor, and he was 
left to loneliness and silence. He felt the damps of the dun- 
geon sink chillingly into his enfeebled frame. He — the fastid- 
ious, the luxurious, the refined — he who had hitherto braved 
no hardship and known no sorrow, Beautiful bird that he was. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


313 

why hdd he left his far and sunny clime — the olive-groves of 
his native hills — the music of immemorial streams ? Why had 
he wantoned on his glittering plumage amidst these hardi and 
ungenial strangers, dazzling the eyes with his gorgeous hues, 
charming- the ear with his blithesome song — thus suddenly to 
be arrested — caged in darkness — a victim and a prey — ^his gay 
flights forever over — his hymns of gladness forever stilled ! 
The poor Athenian ! his very faults the exuberance of a gentle 
and joyous nature, how little had his past career fitted him for 
the trials he was destined to undergo ! The hoots of the mob, 
amidst whose plaudits he had so often guided his graceful car 
and bounding steeds, still rang gratingly in his ear. The cold 
and stony faces of his former friends (the co-mates of his merry 
revels) still rose before his eye. None now were by to soothe, 
to sustain, the admired, the adulated stranger. These walls 
opened but on the dread arena of a violent and shameful death. 
And lone ! of her, too, he had heard naught ; no encouraging 
word, no pitying message ; she, too, had forsaken him ; she be- 
lieved him guilty — and of what crime ? — the murder of a brother. 
He ground his teeth — he groaned aloud — and ever and anon 
a sharp fear shot across him. In that fell and fierce delirium 
which had so unaccountably seized his soul, which had so rav- 
aged the disordered brain, might he not^ indeed, unknowing to 
himself, have committed the crime of which he was accused ? 
Yet as the thought flashed upon him, it was as suddenly checked ; 
for, amidst all the darkness of the past, he thought distinctly 
to recall the dim grove of Cybele, the upward face of the pale 
dead, the pause that he had made beside the corpse, and the 
sudden shock that felled him to the earth. He felt convinced 
of his innocence ! and yet who, to the latest time, long after 
his mangled remains were mingled with the elements, would 
believe him guiltless, or uphold his fame ? As he recalled his 
interview with Arbaces, and the cause of revenge which had 
been excited in the heart of that dark and fearful man, he could 
not but believe that he was the victim of some deep-laid and 
mysterious snare — the clue and train of which he was lost in 
attempting to discover : and lone — Arbaces loved her — might 
his rival’s success be founded upon his ruin ? That tiiought cut 
him more deeply than all ; and his noble heart was more stung 
by jealousy than appalled by fear. Again he groaned aloud. 

A voice from the recess of the darkness answered that 
burst of anguish. “ Who [it said] is my companion in this 
awful hour ? Athenian Glaucus, is it thou ? ” 

“ So, indeed, they called me in mine hour of fortune : they 
may have other names for me now. And thy name, stranger ? ” 


3*4 


THE LAST DA VS OP POMPEII, 


“ Is Olinthus, thy co-mate in the prison as the trial. ^ 

“ What ! he whom they call the Atheist ? Is it the injustice 
of men that hath taught thee to deny the providence of the 
gods ? ” 

“ Alas ! answered Olinthus : “ thou, not I, art the true 
Atheist, for thou deniest the sole true God — the Unknown 
One — to whom thy Athenian fathers erected an altar. It is 
in this hour that 1 know my God. He is with me in the dun- 
geon ; his smile penetrates the darkness ; on the eve of death 
my heart whispers immortality, and earth recedes from me 
but to bring the weary soul neater unto heaven.” 

‘‘ Tell me,” said Glaucus, abruptly, “ did I not hear thy 
name coupled with that of Apaecides in my trial ? Dost thou 
believe me guilty ? ” 

“ God alone reads the heart I but my suspicion rested not 
upon thee.” 

“ On whom, then ? ” 

“ I'hy accuser, Arbaces.” 

“ Ha ! thou cheerest me : and wherefore ? ” 

“ Because I know the man’s evil breast, and he had cause 
to fear him who is now dead.” 

With that, Olinthus proceeded to inform Glaucus of those 
details which the reader already knows, the conversion of 
Apaecides, the plan they had proposed for the detection of the 
impostures of the Eygptian priestcraft, and of the seductions 
practised by Arbaces upon the youthful weakness of the prose- 
lyte. “Therefore,” concluded Olinthus, “had the deceased 
encountered Arbaces, reviled his treasons, and threatened 
detection, the place, the hour, might have favored the wrath 
of the Egyptian, and passion and craft alike dictated the fatal 
blow.” 

“It must have been so ! ” cried Glaucus, joyfully. “ I am 
happy.” 

“ Yet what, O unfortunate ! avails to thee now the discov- 
ery ? Thou art condemned and fated ; and in thine innocence 
thou wilt perish.” 

“ But I shall know mysdf guiltless ; and in my mysterious 
madness I had fearful, though momentary, doubts. Yet tell 
me, man of a strange creed, thinkest thou that, for small errors, 
or for ancestral faults, we are forever abandoned and accursed 
by the powers above, whatever name thou allottest to them .? ” 

“God is just, and abandons not His creatures for their 
mere human frailty. God is merciful, and curses none but 
the wicked who repent not.” 

“Yet it seemeth to me as i^ in the divine anger, I had 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


3IS 

been smitten by a sudden madness, a supernatural and solemn 
frenzy, wrought not by human means.” 

“ There are demons on earth,” answered the Nazarene, 
fearfully, “as well as there are God and His Son in heaven; 
and since thou acknowledgest not the last, the first may have 
had power over thee.” 

Glaucus did not reply, and there was a silence for some 
minutes. At length the Athenian said, in a changed, and soft 
and half -hesitating voice, “ Christian, believest thou, among 
the doctrines cf thy creed, that the dead live again — that they 
who have loved here are united hereafter — that beyond the 
grave our good name shines pure from the mortal mists that 
unjustly dim it in the gross-eyed world — and that the streams 
which are divided by the desert and the rock meet in the 
solemn Hades, and flow once more into one ? ” 

“Believe I that, O Athenian? No, I do not believe — I 
know / and it is that beautiful and blessed assurance which 
supports me now. O Cyllene I ” continued Olinthus, passion- 
ately, “ bride of my heart ! torn from me in the first month of 
our nuptials, shall I not see thee yet, and ere many days be 
past ? Welcome, welcome death, tliat will bring me to heaven 
and thee ! ” 

There was something in this sudden burst of human affec- 
tion which struck a kindred chord in the soul of the Greek. 
He felt, for the first time, a sympathy greater than mere afflic- 
tion between him and his companion. He crept nearer towards 
Olinthus ; for the Italians, fierce in some points, were not un- 
necessarily cruel in others : they spared the separate cell and 
the superfluous chain, and allowed the victims of the arena the 
sad comfort of such freedon and such companionship as the 
prison would afford. 

“ Yes,” continued the Christian with holy fervor, “ the im- 
mortality of the soul — the resurrection — the reunion of the dead 
— is the great principle of our creed — the great truth a God 
suffered death itself to attest and proclaim. No fabled Elysium 
— no poetic Orcus — but a pure and radiant heritage of heaven 
itself, is the portion of the good.” 

“ Tell me, then, thy doctrines, and expound to me thy hopes,” 
said Glaucus, earnestly. 

Olinthus was not slow to obey that prayer ; and there — as 
oftentimes in the early ages of the Christian creed — it was in 
the darkness of the dungeon, and over the approach of death, 
that the dawning Gospel shed its soft and consecrating rays. 


THE I AST DA YS Of POMPEII. 




CHAPTER XVIL 

A change for Glaucus. 

The hours passed in lingering torture over the head of 
Nydia from the time in which she had been replaced in her cell 
Sosia, as if afraid he should be again outwitted, had refrained 
from visiting her until late in the morning of the following day, 
and then he but thrust in the periodical basket of food and wine, 
and hastily reclosed the door. That day rolled on, and Nydia 
felt herself pent — barred — inexorably confined, when that day 
was the judgment day of Glaucus, and when her release would 
have saved him ! Yet knowing, almost, impossible as seemed 
her escape, that the sole chance for the life of Glaucus rested on 
her, this young girl, frail, passionate, and acutely susceptible as 
she was — resolved not to give way to a despair that would disable 
her from seizing whatever opportunity might occur. She kept 
her senses whenever, beneath the whirl of intolerable thought, 
they reeled and tottered ; nay, she took food and wine that she 
might sustain her strength — ^that she might \>e prepared 1 

She resolved scheme after scheme of escape, and was forced 
to dismiss all. Yet Sosia was her only hope, the only instru- 
ment with which she could tamper. He had been superstitious 
in the desire of ascertaining whether he could eventually pur- 
chase his freedom. Blessed gods I might he not be won by the 
bribe of freedom itself was she not nearly rich enough to 
purchase it ? Her slender arms were covered with bracelets, 
the presents of lone ; and on her neck she yet wore that very 
chain which, it may be remembered, had occasioned her jealous 
quarrel with Glaucus, and which she had afterwards promised 
vainly to wear forever. She waited burningly till Sosia should 
again appear ; but as hour after hour passed, and he came not, 
she grew impatient. Every nerve beat with fever ; she could 
endure the solitude no longer — she groaned, she shrieked aloud 
— she beat herself against the door. Her cries echoed along the 
hall, and Sosia, in peevish anger, hastened to see what was the 
matter, and silence his prisoner if possible. 

“ Ho 1 ho I what is this ? ” said he, surlily. “ Young slavey 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


317 

ff thou screamest out thus, we must gag thee again. 
shoulders will smart for it, if thou art heard by my master.” 

“ Kind Sosia, chide me not — I cannot endure to be so long 
alone,” answered Nydia ; “ the solitude appals me. Sit with me, 
I pray, a little while. Nay, fear not that I should attempt to 
escape ; place thy seat before the door. Keep thine eye on me 
— I will not stir from this spot.” 

Sosia, who was a considerable gossip himself, was moved by 
this address. He pitied one who had nobody to talk with — it 
was his case too ; he pitied — and resolved to relieve himself. 
He took the hint of Nydia, placed a stool before the door, leaned 
his back against it and replied, — 

‘‘ I am sure I do not wish to be churlish ; and so far as a 
little innocent chat goes, I have no objection to indulge you. 
But mind, no tricks — no more conjuring ! ” 

“ No, no ; tell me, dear Sosia, what is the hour ? ” 

“ It is already evening — the goats are going home.” 

“ O gods ! how went the trial } ” 

“ Both condemned ! ” 

Nydia repressed the shriek. “ Well — well, I thought it would 
be so. When do they suffer ? ” 

“ To-morrow, in the amphitheatre. If it were not for thee, 
little wretch 1 I should be allowed to go with the rest and 
see it.” 

Nydia leant back for some moments. Nature could endure 
no more — she had fainted away. But Sosia did not perceive it, 
for it was the dusk of eve, and he was full of his own privations. 
He went on lamenting the loss of so delightful a show, and 
accusing the injustice of Arbaces for singling him out from all 
his fellows to be converted into a jailer ; and ere he had half 
finished, Nydia, with a deep sigh, recovered the sense of life. 

“ Thou sighest, blind one, at my loss ! Well, that is some 
comfort. So long as you acknowledge how much you cost 
me, I will endeavor not to gnimble. It is hard to be ill-treated, 
and yet not pitied.” 

“ Sosia, how much dost thou require to make up the pur- 
chase of thy freedom ? ” 

“ How much ? Why, about two thousand sesterces.” 

“ The gods be praised ! not more ? Seest thou these 
bracelets and this chain ? They are worth double that sum. 
I will give them thee if ” 

“ Tempt me not : I cannot release thee. Arbaces is a severe 
and awful master. Who knows but I might feed the fishes of 
the Sarnus ? Alas ! all the sesterces in the world would not 
buy me back into life. Better a live dog than a dead lion.” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


3^8 

** Sosia, thy freedom ! Think well ! If thou wilt let me out^ 
only for one little hour ! — let me out at midnight — I will return 
ere to-morrow’s dawn ; nay, thou canst go with me.” 

“No,” said Sosia, sturdily, “ a slave once disobeyed Arbaces> 
and he was never more heard of.” 

“ But the law gives a master no power over the life ol 
a slave.” 

“ The law is very obliging, but more polite than efficient. 
I know that Arbaces always gets the law on his side. Besides, 
if I am once dead, what law can bring me to life again ! ” 

Nydia wrung her hands. “Is there no hope, then said 
she convulsively. 

“ None of escape, till Arbaces gives the word.” 

“Well, then,” said Nydia, quickly, “thou wilt not, at 
least, refuse to take a letter for me : thy master cannot kill thee 
for that.” 

“To whom ? ” 

“ The praetor.” 

“ To a magistrate ? No — not I. I should be made a wit- 
ness in court, for what I know ; and the way they cross-examine 
the slave is by the torture.” 

“ Pardon : I meant not the praetor — it was a word that 
escaped me unawares ; I meant quite another person — the gay 
Sallust.” 

“ Oh ! and what want you with him ? ” 

“ Glaucus was my master ; he purchased me from a cruel 
lord. He alone has been kind to me. He is to die. I shall 
never live happily if I cannot, in his hour of trial and doom, 
let him know that one heart is grateful to him. Sallust is his 
friend ; he will convey my message.” 

“ I am sure he will do no such a thing. Glaucus will have 
enough to think of between this and to-morrow without troubling 
his head about a blind girl.” 

“ Man,” said Nydia, rising, “ wilt thou become free ? Thou 
hast the offer in thy power; to-morrow it will be too late. 
Never was freedom more cheaply purchased. Thou canst 
easily and unmissed leave home ; less than half an hour will 
suffice for thine absence. And for such a trifle wilt thou refuse 
liberty 1 ” 

Sosia was greatly moved. It was true that the request was 
remarkably silly ; but what was that to him ? So much the 
better. He could lock the door on Nydia, and, if Arbaces 
should learn his absence, the offence was venial, and would 
merit but a reprimand. Yet, should Nydia’s letter contain 
something more than what she had said — should it speak of 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


3^9 

her imprisonment, as he shrewdly conjectured it would do— 
what then ! It need never be known to Arbaces that he had 
carried the letter. At the worst the bribe was enormous — the 
risk light — the temptation irresistible. He hesitated no longer 
— he assented to the proposal. 

“ Give me the trinkets, and I will take the letter. Yet 
stay — thou art a slave — thou hast no right to these ornaments 
—they are thy master’s.” 

“ They were the gifts of Glaucus ; he is my master. What 
chance hath he to claim them ? Who else will know they are 
in my possession ? ” 

“ Enough — I will bring thee the papyrus.” 

“ No, not papyrus — a tablet of wax and a stilus.” 

Nydia, as the reader will have seen, was born of gentle 
parents. They had done all to lighten her calamity, and her 
quick intellect seconded their exertions. Despite her blindness, 
she had therefore acquired in childhood, though imperfectly, 
the art to write with the sharp stilus upon waxen tablets, in 
which her exquisite sense of touch came to her aid. When the 
tablets were brought to her, she thus painfully traced some 
words in Greek, the language of her childhood, and which 
almost every Italian of the higher ranks was then supposed to 
know. She carefully wound round the epistle the protecting 
thread, and covered its knot with wax ; and ere she placed it 
in the hands of Sosia, she thus addressed him : — 

“ Sosia, I am blind and in prison. Thou mayst think to 
deceive me — thou mayst pretend only to take the letter to 
Sallust — thou mayst not fulfil thy charge : but here I solemnly 
dedicate thy head to vengeance, thy soul to the infernal powers, 
if thou wrongest thy trust ; and I call upon thee to place thy 
right hand of faith in mine, and repeat after me these words : — 
* By the ground on which we stand — by the elements which con- 
tain life and can curse life — by Orcus, the all-avenging — by the 
Olympian Jupiter, the all-seeing — I swear that I will honestly 
discharge my trust, and faithfully deliver into the hands of 
Sallust this letter ! And if I prejure myself in this oath, may 
the full curses of heaven and hell be wreaked upon me ! ’ 
Enough ! — I trust thee — take thy reward. It is already dark — 
depart at once.” 

“ Thou art a strange girl, and thou hast frightened me terri- 
bly ; but it is all very natural : and if Sallust is to be found, I 
give him this letter as I have sworn. By my faith, I may have 
my little peccadilloes ! but perjury — no / I leave that to my 
betters.” 

With this Sosia withdrew, carefully passing the heavy bolt 


Tff£ LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


320 

athwart Nydia’s door — carefully locking its wards : and, hang* 
ing the key to his girdle, he retired to his own den, enveloped 
himself from head to foot in a huge disguising cloak, and slipped 
out by the back way undisturbed and unseen. 

The streets were thin and empty. He soon gained the 
house of Sallust. The porter bade him leave his letter, and be- 
gone ; for Sallust was so grieved at the condemnation of Glau- 
cus, that he could not on any account be disturbed. 

“ Nevertheless, I have sworn to give this letter into his own 
hands — do so I must ! ” And Sosia, well knowing by experi 
ence that Cerberus loves a sop, thrust some half a dozen ses- 
terces into the hand of the porter. 

“ Well, well,” said the latter, relenting, “ you may enter if 
you will ; but, to tell you the truth, Sallust is drinking himself 
out of his grief. It is his way when anything disturbs him. 
He orders a capital supper, the best wine, and does not give 
over till everything is out of his head — but the liquor.” 

“ An excellent plan — excellent 1 Ah, what it is to be rich. 
If I were Sallust, I would have some grief or another every 
day. But just say a kind word for me with the atriensis — I see 
him coming.” 

Sallust was too sad to receive company ; he was too sad, 
also, to drink alone ; so, . as was his wont, he admitted his 
favorite freedman to his entertadnment, and a stranger banquet 
never was held. For ever and anon, the kind-hearted epicure 
sighed, whimpered, wept outright, and then turned with double 
zest to some new dish or his refilled goblet. 

“ My good fellow,” said he to his companion, “ it was a 
most a^ul judgment — heighho ! — it is not bad, that kid, eh ? 
Poor, dear Glaucus ! — what a jaw the lion has, too ! Ah, ah, 
ah!” 

And Sallust sobbed loudly — the fit was stopped by a coun- 
teraction of hiccoughs. 

“ Take a cup of wine,” said the freedman. 

“ A thought too cold ; but then how cold Glaucus must be! 
Shut up the house to-morrow — not a slave shall stir forth — 
none of my people shall honor that cursed arena — No, no ! ” 

“Taste the Falernian — your grief distracts you. By the 
gods it does — a piece of that cheesecake.” 

It was at this auspicious moment that Sosia was admitted 
to the presence of the disconsolate carouser. 

“ Ho— what art thou .? ” 

“ Merely a messenger to Sallust. I give him this billet 
from a young female. There is no answer that I know of 
May I withdraw ? ” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


Thus said the discreet Sosia, keeping his face muffled in his 
cloak, and speaking with a feigned voice, so that he might not 
hereafter be recognized. 

“ By the gods — a pimp ! Unfeeling wretch !— do you not 
see my sorrows Go ! — and the curses of Pandarus with 
you ! ” 

Sosia lost not a moment in retiring. 

“ Will you read the letter, Sallust ^ ” said the freedman. 

Letter !- -which letter ? ” said the epicure, reeling, for he 
began to see double. “ A curse on these wenches, say I ! Am 
I a man to think of — (Jiiccough) — pleasure, when — when — my 
friend is going to be eat up .? ” 

“ Eat another tartlet.” 

“ No, no I My grief chokes ’‘v \ ” 

“Take him to bed,” said the freedman; and, Sallust’s 
head now declining fairly on his breast, they bore him off to 
his cubiculum, still muttering lamentations for Glaucus, and 
imprecations on the unfeeling overtures of ladies of pleasure. 

Meanwhile Sosia strode indignantly homeward. “Pimp, 
indeed I ” quoth he to himself. “ Pimp ! a scurvy-tongued 
fellow, that Sallust ! Had I been called knave, or thief, I 
could have forgiven it; but pimp I Faugh 1 there is something 
in the word which the toughest stomach in the world would 
rise against. A knave is a knave for his own pleasure, and a 
thief is a thief for his own profit ; and there is something hon- 
orable and philosophical in being a rascal for one’s own sake : 
that is doing things upon principle — upon a grand scale. But 
a pimp is a thing that defiles itself for another — a pipkin that 
is put on the fire for another man’s pottage ! a napkin, that 
every guest wipes his hands upon 1 and the scullion says, ‘ by 
your leave,’ too. A pimp ! I would rather he had called me a 
parricide ! But the man was drunk, and did not know what he 
said ; and, besides, I disguised myself. Had he seen it had 
been Sosia who addressed him, it would have been ‘ honest 
Sosia! and ‘worthy man!’ I warrant. Nevertheless, the 
trinkets have been won easily — that’s some comfort! and, O 
goddess Feronia ! I shall be a freedman soon ! and then I 
should like to see who’ll call me pimp ! — unless, indeed, he pay 
me pretty handsomely for it ! ” 

While Sosia was soliloquizing in this high-minded and gen- 
erous vein, his path lay along a narrow lane that led towards 
the amphitheatre and its adjacent palaces. Suddenly, as he 
turned a sharp corner he found himself in the midst of a con- 
siderable crowd. Men, women, and children, all were hurry- 
ing on, laughing, talking, gesticulating ; and, ere he was aware 

21 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


322 

of it, the worthy Sosia was borne away with the noisy stream. 

“ What now ! ” he asked of his nearest neighbor, a young 
artificer ! “ what now ? Where are all these good folks throng- 
ing ? Does any rich patron give away alms or viands to-night ? ” 

“Not so, man — better still,” replied the artificer; “the 
noble Pansa — the people's friend — has granted the public leave 
to see the beasts in their vivaria. By Hercules ! they will no' 
be seen so safely by some persons to-morrow ! ” 

“ ’Tis a pretty sight,” said the slave, yielding to the throng 
that impelled him onward ; “ and since I may not go to the 
sports to-morrow, I may as well take a peep at the beasts to- 
night.” 

“ You will do well,” returned his new acquaintance ; “ a lion 
and a tiger are not to be seen at Pompeii every day.” 

The crowd had now entered a broken and wide space of 
ground, on which, as it was only lighted scantily and from a 
distance, the press became dangerous to those whose limbs 
and shoulders were not fitted for a mob. Nevertheless, the 
women especially — many of them with children in their arms, 
or even at the breast — were the most resolute in forcing their 
way ; and their shrill exclamations of complaint or objurgation 
were heard loud above the more jovial and masculine voices. 
\ et, amidst them was a young and girlish voice, that appeared 
to come from one too happy in her excitement to be alive to the 
inconvenience of the crowd. 

“ Aha ! ” cried the young woman, to some of her compan- 
ions, “ I always told you so ; I always said we should have a 
man for the lion ; and now we have one for the tiger too 1 I 
wish to-morrow were come ! 

** Ho I ho ! for the merry, merry show, 

With a forest of faces in every row I 

Lo ! the swordsmen, bold as the son of Alcmaena, 

Sweep, side by side, o’er the hushed arena. 

Talk while you may, you will hold your breath 
When they meet in the grasp of the glowing death 1 
Tramp 1 tramp 1 how gayly they go ! 

Ho 1 ho 1 for the merry, merry show 1 ” 

^ A jolly girl ! ” said Sosia. 

Yes,” replied the young artificer, a curly-headed, handsome 
youth. “ Yes,” replied he, enviously ; “ the women love a glad- 
iator. If I had been a slave, 1 would have soon found my 
schoolmaster in the lanista ! ” 

“ Would you, indeed ? ” said Sosia, with a sneer. “ People’s 
notions differ ! ” 

The crowd had now arrived at the place of destination; 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


323 

but as the cell in which the wild beasts were confined was ex- 
tremely small and narrow, tenfold more vehement than it hith- 
erto had been was the rush of the aspirants to obtain admit- 
tance. Two of the officers of the amphitheatre, placed at the 
entrance, very wisely mitigated the evil by dispensing to the 
foremost only a limited number of tickets at a time, and admit- 
ting no new visitors till their predecessors had sated their curi- 
osity. Sosia, who was a tolerably stout fellow, and not troubled 
with any remarkable scruples of diffidence or good-breeding, 
contrived to be among the first of the initiated. 

Separated from his companion the artificer, Sosia found 
himself in a narrow cell of oppressive heat and atmosphere, 
and lighted by several rank and flaring torches. 

The animals, usually kept in different vivaria, or dens, were 
now, for the greater entertainment of the visitors, placed in 
one, but equally indeed divided from each other by strong 
cages protected by iron bars. 

There they were, the fell and grim wanderers of the des- 
ert, who have now become almost the principal agents of this 
story. The lion, who, as being more gentle by nature than 
his fellow-beast, had been more incited to ferocity by hunger, 
stalked restlessly and fiercely to and fro his narrow confines : 
his eyes were lurid with rage and famine ; and as, every now 
and then, he paused and glared around, the spectators fear- 
fully pressed backward, and drew their breath more quickly. 
But the tiger lay quiet and extended at full length in his cage, 
and only by an occasional play of his tail, or a long impatient 
yawn, testified any emotion at his confinement, or at the 
crowd which honored him with their presence. 

“ I have seen no fiercer beast than yon lion even in the 
amphitheatre of Rome,” said a gigantic and sinewy fellow 
who stood at the right hand of Sosia. 

“ I feel humbled when I look at his limbs,” replied, at the 
left of Sosia, a slighter and younger figure, with his arms 
folded on his breast. 

The slave looked first at one, and then at the other. 
“ Virtus in medio / — virtue is ever in the middle ! ’’ muttered 
he to himself ; “ a goodly neighborhood for thee, Sosia — 7 
gladiator on each side ! ” 

“That is well said, Lydon,” returned the huger gladi?' 
tor ; “ I feel the same.” 

“ And to think,” observed Lydon, in a tone of deep feel- 
ing, “ to think that the noble Gre^k, he whom we saw but a 
day or two since before us, so full of youth, and health, and 
joyousness, h to feast yon monster ! ” 


324 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEiL 


‘‘Why not?^’ growled Niger savagely; “many an honest 
gladiator has been compelled to a like combat by the emperor 
— why not a wealthy murderer by the law ? ’’ 

Lydon sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent. 
Meanwhile the common gazers listened with staring eyes and 
lips apart : the gladiators were objects of interest as well as 
the beasts — they were animals of the same species ; so the 
crowd glanced from one to tlie other — the men and the brutes : 
whispering their comments and anticipating the morrow. 

“ Well 1 said Lydon, turning away, “ I thank the gods 
that it is not the lion or the tiger I am to contend with ; even 
you, Niger, are a gentler combatant than they.” 

“ But equally dangerous,” said the gladiator, with a fierce 
laugh ; and the bystanders, admiring his vast limbs and fero- 
cious countenance, laughed too. 

“ That as it may be,” answered Lydon, carelessly, as he 
pressed through the throng and quitted the den. 

“ I may as well take advantage of his shoulders,” thought 
the prudent Sosia, hastening to follow him : “ the crowd 
always give way to a gladiator, so I will keep close behind, 
and come in for a share of his consequence.” 

The son of Medon strode quickly though the mob, many 
of whom recognized his features and profession. 

“ That IS young Lydon, a brave fellow ; he fights to-mor- 
row,” said one. 

“ Ah ! I have a bet on him,” said another ; “ see how 
firmly he walks 1 ” 

“ Good luck to thee, Lydon 1 ” said a third. 

“Lydon, you have my wishes,” half whispered a fourth, 
smiling (a comely woman of the middle class) — “and if you 
win, why, you may hear more of me.” 

“ A handsome man, by Venus ! ” cried a fifth, who was a 
girl scarcely in her teens. “Thank you,” returned Sosia, 
gravely taking the compliment to himself. 

However strong the purer motives of Lydon, and certain 
though it be that he would never have entered so bloody a 
calling but from the hope of obtaining his father’s freedom, 
he was not altogether unmoved by the notice he excited. He 
forgot that the voices now raised in commendation might on 
the morrow shout over his death pangs. By nature fierce and 
reckless, as well as generous and «varm-hearted, he was already 
imbued with the pride of a profession that he fancied he dis- 
dained, and affected by the influence of a companionship that 
in reality he loathed. He saw himself now a man of impop 
tance ; his step grew yet lighter, and his mien more elate. 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEIL 


325 

^ Niger,” said he, turning suddenly, as he had now thread 
ed the crowd ; “we have often quarrelled ; we are not matched 
against each other, but one of us, at least, may reasonably 
expect to fall — give us thy hand.” 

“ Most readily,” said Sosia, extending his palm. 

“ Ha I what fool is this ? Why, I thought Niger was at 
my heels 1 ” 

“ I forgive the mistake,” replied Sosia, condescendingly ; 
“don’t mention it; the error was easy — I and Niger are some- 
what of the same build.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! that is excellent 1 Niger would have slit thy 
throat, had he heard thee ! ” 

“ You gentlemen of the arena have a most disagreeable 
mode of talking,” said Sosia: “let us change the conversa- 
tion.” 

“ Vah / Vah I said Lydon, impatiently ; “ I am in no 
humor to converse with thee ! ” 

“ Why, truly,” returned the slave, “ you must have serious 
thoughts enough to occupy your mind : to-morrow is, I think, 
your first essay in the arena ? Well, I am sure you will die 
bravely I ” 

“ May thy words fall on thine own head ! ” said Lydon, 
superstitiously, for he by no means liked the blessing of Sosia. 
“ Die / No — I trust my hour is not yet come.” 

“ He who plays at dice with death must expect the dog’s 
throw,” replied Sosia, maliciously. “ But you are a strong 
fellow, and I wish you all imaginable luck ; and so, vale I 

With that the slave turned on his heel, and took his way 
homeward. 

“ I trust the rogue’s words are not ominous, * said Lydon, 
musingly. “ In my zeal for my father’s liberty . and my con- 
fidence in my own thews and sinews, I have not contemplated 
the possibility of death. My poor father ! I am thy only son I 
—if I were to fall ” 

As the thought crossed him, the gladiator strode on with 
a more rapid and restless pace, when suddenly, in an opposite 
street, he beheld the very object of his thoughts. Leaning on 
his stick, his form bent by care and age, his eyes downcast, 
and his steps trembling, the gray-haired Medon slowly ap- 
proached towards the gladiator. Lydon pausea a moment : he 
divined at once the cause that brought forth the old man at 
that late hour. 

“ Be sure, it is I whom he seeks,” thought he ; “ he is horror- 
struck at the condemnation of Olinthus — he more than evei 
esteems the arena criminal and hateful — ^he*X)mes again to dis* 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII. 


326 

suade me from the contest. I must shun him — I cannot brooli 
his prayers — his tears.’* 

These thoughts, so long to recite, flashed across the youngs 
man like lightning. He turned abruptly and fled swiftly in 
an oppo'^ite -direction. He paused not till, almost spent and 
breathless, the founJ himself on the summit of a small acclivity 
which overlooked the most gay and splendid part of that minia- 
ture city ; and as there he paused, and gazed along the tranquil 
streets glittering in the rays of the moon (which had just arisen, 
and brought partially and picturesquely into light the crowd 
around the amphitheatre at a distance, murmuring, and sway- 
ing to and fro), the influence of the scene affected him, rude 
and unimaginative though his nature. He sat himself down to 
rest upon the steps of a deserted portico, and felt the calm of 
the hour quiet and restore him. Opposite and near at hand, 
the lights gleamed from a palace in which the master now held 
his revels. The doors were open for coolness, and the glad- 
iator beheld the numerous and festive group gathered round 
the tables in the atrium ; * while behind them, closing the long 
vista of the illumined rooms beyond, the spray of the distant foun- 
tain sparkled in the moonbeams. There, the garlands wreathed 
around the columns of the hall — there, gleamed still and 
frequent the marble statue — there, amidst peals of jocund 
laughter, rose the music and the lay. 


EPICUREAN SONG. 

“ Away with your stories of Hades, 

Which the Flamen has forged to affright 

We laugh at your three Maiden Ladies, 

Your Fates and your sullen Cocytus. 

Poor Jove has a troublesome life, sir, 

Could we credit your tales of his portals— 

In shutting his ears on his wife, sir. 

And opening his eyes upon mortals. 

Oh, blest be the bright Epicurus ! 

Who taught us to laugh at such fables ; 

On Hades they wanted to moor us. 

And his hand cut the terrible cables. 

If, then, there’s a Jove or a Juno, 

They vex not their heads about us, man f 

Besides, if they did, I and you know 
’Tis the life of a god to live Mwj, man I 

* In the atrium, as I have elsewhere observed, a larger party of guesii 
than ordinary was frequently entertained. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII . 


3*7 


What 1 think you the gods place their bliss— eh 
In playing the spy on a sinner ? 

In counting the girls, that we kiss, eh ? 

Or the cups that we empty at dinner? 

Content with the soft lips that love us. 

This music, this wine, and this mirth, boys. 

We care not for gods up above us — 

We know there’s no god for this earth, boys I ” 

While Lydon’s piety (which, accommodating as it might 
be, was in no slight degree disturbed by these verses, which 
embodied the fashionable philosophy of the day) slowly re- 
covered itself from the shock it had received, a small party of 
men, in plain garments and of the middle class, passed by his 
resting-place. They were in earnest conversation, and did not 
seem to notice or heed the gladiator as they moved on. 

“ O horror on horrors ! ” said one ; “ Olinthus is snatched 
from us ! our right arm is lopped away 1 When will Christ 
descend to protect his own ? ” 

“ Can human atrocity go farther ?” said another ; to sentence 
an innocent man to the same arena as a murderer ! But let us 
not despair ; the thunder of Sinai may yet be heard, and the 
Lord preserve his saint. * The fool has said in his heart, There 
is no God.’ ” 

At that moment out broke again, from the illumined palace 
the burden of the revellers’ song ; — 

“We care not for gods up above us — 

We know there’s no god for this earth, bovs I ” • 

Ere the words died away, the Nazarenes, moved by sudden 
Indignation, caught up the echo, and, in the w'or Jts of one of 
their favorite hymns, shouted aloud — 

THE WARNING HYMN OF THE NAZABKNES. 

“ Around — about — forever near thee, 

God— OUR Goc — shall mark and hear thee ! 

On His car of storm He sweeps i 
Bow. yc heavens, and shrink, ye ^eeos! 

Woe to the proud ones who deiy Him I— 

Woe tc the dreamers who deny Him I 

Woo to the wicked, woe? 

The proud stars shall fail— 

The sun shall grow pale — 

The heavens shrivel up like a scroll— 

Hell’s ocean shall bear 
Its depths of despair, 

* See note {a) re the end of volume. 


3*8 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEU. 


Each wave an eternal soul ! 

For the only thing, then, 

That shall not live again. 

Is the corjjse of the giant Time! 

Hark, the trumpet of thunder I 
Lo, earth rent asunder I 
And forth, on his Angel-throne, 

He comes through the gloom, 

The Judge of the Tomb, 

To summons and save his own ! 

Oh, joy to Care, and woe to Crime, 

He comes to save His own ! 

Woe to the proud ones who defy Him ! 

Woe to the dreamers who deny Him ! 

Woe to the wicked, woe I ” 

A sudden silence from the startled hall of revel succeedea 
these ominous words : the Christians swept on, and were soon 
hidden from the sight of the gladiator. Awed, he scarce knew 
why, by the mystic denunciations of the Christians, Lydon, after 
a short pause, now rose to pursue his way homeward. 

Before him, how serenely slept the star-light on that lovely 
city! how breathlessly its pillared streets reposed in their 
security 1 — how softly rippled the dark-green waves beyond ! — 
how cloudless spread, aloft and blue, the dreaming Campanian 
skies ! Yet this was the last night for the gay Pompeii I the 
colony of the hoar Chaldean ! the fabled city of Hercules ! the 
delight of the voluptuous Roman 1 Age after age had rolled, 
indestructive, unheeded, over its head ; and now the last ray 
quivered on the dial-plate of its doom ! The gladiator heard 
some light steps behind— a group of females were wending 
homeward from their visit to the amphitheatre. As he turned, 
his eye was arrested by a strange and sudden apparition. From 
the summit of Vesuvius, darkly visible at the distance, there 
shot a pale meteoric, livid light — it trembled an instant and 
was gone. And at the same moment that his eye caught it, the 
voice of one of the youngest of the women broke out hilariously 
and shrill • — 

“ Tramp I Tramp I how gayly they go ! 

Ho, Hot FOR THE MORROW’S MERRY SHOW 1 ** 


THE LAST DA YS OF FOMPEiE 


339 


BOOK THE FIFTH. 


CHAPTER I. 

The dream of Arbaces. — A visitor and a warning to the Egyptian. 

The awful night preceding the fierce joy of the amphithe- 
atre rolled drearily away, and grayly broke forth the dawn of 
THE LAST DAY OF PoMPEii I The air was uncommonly calm 
and sultry — a thin and dull mist gathered over the valleys and 
hollows of the broad Campanian fields. But yet it was re- 
marked in surprise by the early fishermen, that, despite the ex- 
ceeding stillness of the atmosphere, the waves of the sea were 
agitated, and seemed, as it were, to run disturbedly back from 
the shore ; while along the blue and stately Sarnus, whose an- 
cient breadth of channel the traveller now vainly seeks to dis- 
cover, there crept a hoarse and sullen murmur, as it glided by 
the laughing plains and the gaudy villas of the wealthy citizens. 
Clear above the low mist rose the time-worn towers of the im- 
memorial town, the red-tiled roofs of the bright streets, the 
solemn columns of many temples, and the statue-crowned por- 
tals of the Forum and the Arch of Triumph. Far in the dis- 
tance, the outline of the circling hills soared above the vapors, 
and mingled with the changeful hues of the morning sky. The 
cloud that had so long rested over the crest of Vesuvius had 
suddenly vanished, and its rugged and haughty brow looked 
without a frown over the beautiful scenes below. 

Despite the earliness of the hour, the gates of the city were 
already opened. Horseman upon horseman, vehicle after 
vehicle, poured rapidly in : and the voices of numerous pedes- 
trian groups, clad in holiday attire, rose high in joyous and 
excited merriment; the streets were crowded with citizens 
and strangers from the populous neighborhood of Pompeii; 
and noisily — fast — confusedly swept the many streams of life 
towards the fatal show. 

Despite the vas/^ size of the amphitheatre, seemingly so dis* 


330 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEfL 


proportioned to the extent of the city, and formed to include 
nearly the whole population of Pompeii itself, so great, on ex« 
traordinary occasions, was the concourse of strangers from 
all parts of Campania, that the space before it was usually 
crowded for several hours previous to the commencement of the 
sports, by such persons as were not entitled by their rank to 
appointed and especial seats. And the intense curiosity which 
the trial and sentence of two criminals so remarkable had oc- 
casioned, increased the crowd on this day to an extent wholly 
unprecedented. 

While the common people, with the lively vehemence of 
their Campanian blood, were thus pushing, scrambling, hurry- 
ing on, — yet, amidst all their eagerness, preserving, as is now 
the wont with Italians in such meetings, a wonderful order 
and unquarrelsome good-humor, — a strange visitor to Arbaces 
was threading her way to his sequestered mansion. At the 
sight of her quaint and primeval garb — of her wild gait and 
gestures — the passengers she encountered touched each other 
and smiled ; but as they caught a glimpse of her countenance, 
the mirth was hushed at once, for the face was as the face of 
the dead ; and, what with the ghastly features and obsolete 
robes of the stranger, it seemed as if one long entombed haa 
risen once more amongst the living. In silence and awe each 
group gave way as she passed along, and she soon gained the 
broad porch of the Egyptian’s palace. 

The black porter, like the rest of the world, astir at an 
unusual hour, started as he opened the door to her sum- 
mons. 

The sleep of the Egyptian had been unusually profound 
during the night ; but as the dawn approached, it was disturbed 
by strange and unquiet dreams, which impressed him the more 
as they were colored by the peculiar philosophy he embraced. 

He thought that he was transported to the bowels of the 
earth, and that he stood alone in a mighty cavern, supported 
by enormous columns of rough and primeval rock, lost, as they 
ascended, in the vastness of a shadow athwart whose eternal 
darkness no beam of day had ever glanced. And in the space 
between these columns were huge wheels, that whirled round 
and round unceasingly, and with a rushing and roaring noise. 
Only to the right and left extremities of the cavern, the space 
between the pillars was left bare, and the apertures stretched 
away into galleries — not wholly dark, but dimly lighted by 
wandering and erratic fires, that, meteor-like, now crept (as 
the snake creeps) along the rugged and dank soil ; and now 
leaped fiercely to and fro, darting across the vast gloom in wild 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


331 


gambols — suddenly disappearing : and as suddenly bursting into 
tenfold brilliancy and power. And while he gazed wondering- 
ly upon the gallery to the left, thin, mist-like, aerial shapes 
passed slowly up ; and when they had gained the hall they 
seemed to rise aloft, and to vanish, as the smoke vanishes, in 
the measureless ascent. 

He turned in fear towards the opposite extremity — and oe- 
hold 1 there came swiftly, from the gloom-above, similar shad- 
ows, which swept hurriedly along the gallery to the right, as 
if borne involuntarily adown the tides of some invisible stream ; 
and the faces of these spectres were more distinct than those 
that emerged from the opposite passage ; and on some was 
joy, and on others sorrow — some were vivid with expectation 
and hope, some unutterably dejected by awe and horror. And 
so they passed swift and constantly on, till the eyes of the 
gazer grew dizzy and blinded with the whirl of an ever-vary- 
ing succession of things impelled by a power apparently not 
their own. 

Arbaces turned away ; and in the recess of the hall, he saw 
the mighty form of a giantess seated upon a pile of skulls, and 
her hands were busy upon a pale and shadowy woof ; and he 
saw that the woof communicated with the numberless wheels, 
as if it guided the machinery of their movements. He thought 
his feet, by some secret agency, were impelled towards the 
female, and that he was borne onwards till he stood before 
her, face to face. The countenance of the giantess was solemn 
and hushed, and beautifully serene. It was as the face of 
some colossal sculpture of his own ancestral sphinx. No pas- 
sion — no human emotion, disturbed its brooding and unwrin- 
kled brow ; there was neither sadness, nor joy, nor memory, 
nor hope; it was free from all with which the wild human 
heart can sympathise. The mystery of mysteries rested on 
its beauty, — it awed, but terrified not ; it was the Incarnation 
of the Sublime. And Arbaces felt the voice leave his lips, 
without an impulse of his own ; and the voice asked — 

“ Who art thou, and what is thy task ? ’’ 

“I am That which thou hast acknowledged,” answered, 
without desisting from its work, the mighty phantom. “ My 
name is Nature ! These are the wheels of the world, and my 
hand guides them for the life of all things.” 

“And what,” said the voice of Arbaces, “are these gal- 
leries, that, strangely and fitfully illumined, stretch on either 
hand into the abyss jf gloom ? ” 

“ That,” answered the giant-mother, “ which thou behold- 
fest to the left, is the gallery of the Unborn. The shadows 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


332 

that flic onward and upward into the world, are the souls that 
pass from the long eternity of being to their destined pilgrim- 
age on earth. That which thou beholdest to thy right, where- 
in the shadows descending from above sweep on, equally un- 
known and dim, is the gallery of the Dead 1 ” 

“And, wherefore,” said the voice of Arbaces, “yon wan- 
dering lights, that so wildly break the darkness; but only 
breaks not reveal ? ” 

“ Dark fool of the human sciences ! dreamer of the stars, 
and would-be decipherer of the heart and origin of things ! 
tliose lights are but the glimmerings of such knowledge as is 
vouchsafed to Nature to work her way, to trace enough of the 
past and future to give providence to her designs. Judge, then, 
puppet as thou art, what lights are reserved for thee ! ” 

Arbaces felt himself tremble as he asked again, “Where- 
fore am I here ? ” 

“ It is the forecast of thy soul — the prescience of thy rush- 
ing doom — the shadow of thy fate lengthening into eternity as 
it declines from earth.” 

Ere he could answer, Arbaces felt a rushing wind sweep 
down the cavern, as the winds of a giant god. Borne aloft 
from the ground, and whirled on high as a leaf in the storms 
of autumn, he beheld himself in the midst of the Spectres of 
the Dead, and hurrying with them along the length of gloom. 
As in vain and impotent despair he struggled against the im- 
pelling power, he thought the wind grew into something like a 
shape — a spectral outline of the wings and talons of an eagle, 
with limbs floating far and indistinctly along the air, and eyes 
that, alone clearly and vividly seen, glared stonily and remorse- 
lessly on his own. 

“ What art thou ? ” again said the voice of the Egyptian. 

“ I am That which thou hast acknowledged ; ” and the 
spectre laughed aloud — “ and my name is Necessity.” 

“To what dost thou bear me ? ” 

“ To the Unknown.” 

“To happiness or to woe ? ” 

“ As thou hast sown, so shalt thou reap.” 

“ Dread thing, not so ! If thou art the Ruler of life, thine 
are my misdeeds, not mine.” 

“ I am but the breath of God 1 ” answered the mighty 

WIND. 

“ Then is my wisdom vain ! ” groaned the dreamer. 

“The husbandman accuses not fate, when, having sown 
thistles, he reaps not com. Thou hast sown crime, accuse not 
fate if thou reapest not the harvest of virtue.” 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII, 


333 


The scene suddenly changed. Arbaces was in a place oi 
human bones ; and lo ! in the midst of them was a skull, and 
the skull, still retaining its fleshless hollows, assumed slowly, 
and in the mysterious confusion of a dream, the face of Apae- 
cides ; and forth from the grinning jaws there crept a small 
worm, and it crawled to the feet of Arbaces. He attempted to 
stamp on it and crush it ; but it became longer and larger with 
that attempt. It swelled and bloated until it grew into a vast 
serpent : it coiled itself round the limbs of Arbaces ; it crunched 
his bones ; it raised its glaring eyes and poisonous jaws to his 
face. He writhed in vain ; he writhed — he gasped — beneath 
the influence of the blighting breath — he felt himself blasted 
into death. And then a voice came from the reptile, which still 
bore the face of Apaecides, and rang in his reeling ear, — 

“Thy victim is thy Judge! the worm thou wouldst 

CRUSH BECOMES THE SERPENT THAT DEVOURS THEE I ” 

With a shriek of wrath, and woe, and despairing resist- 
ance, Arbaces awoke — his hair on end — his brow bathed in dew 
— his eyes glazed and staring — his mighty frame quivering as 
an infant’s beneath the agony of that dream. He awoke — ^he 
collected himself — be blessed the gods whom he disbelieved, 
that he was in a dream ; — he turned his eyes from side to side 
— ^he saw the dawning light break through his small but lofty 
window — he was in the Precincts of Day — he rejoiced — he 
smiled; — his eyes fell, and opposite to him he beheld the 
ghastly features, the lifeless eye, the livid lip-— of the Hag of 
Vesuvius ! 

“ Ha ! ” he cried, placing his hands before his eyes, as to 
shut out the grisly vision, “ do I dream still ? — Am I with the 
dead ? ” 

“ Mighty Hermes — no 1 Thou art with one death-like, but 
not dead. Recognize thy friend and slave.” 

There was a long silence. Slowly the shudders that passed 
over the limbs of the Egyptian chased each other away, faint- 
lier and taintlier dying till he was himself again. 

“ It was a dream, dien,” said he. “ Well — let me dream no 
more, or the day cannot compensate for the pangs of night. 
Woman, how earnest thou here, and wherefore ? ” 

“ I came to warn thee,” answered the sepulchral voice of 
the saga. 

“ Warn me ! The dream lied not, then ? Of what peril ? ” 
“ Listen to me. Some evil hangs over this fated city. Fly 
while it be time. Thou knowest that I hold my home on that 
mountain beneath which old tradition saith there yet burn the 
fires of the river of Phlegethon ; and in my cavern is a vast 


334 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


abyss, and in that abyss I have of late marked a red and duB 
Stream creep slowly, slowly on ; and heard many and mighty 
sounds hissing and roaring through the glocm. But last night, 
as I looked thereon, behold the stream was no longer dull, but 
instensely and fiercely luminous ; and while I gazed, the beast 
that liveth with me, and was cowering by my side, uttered a 
shrill howl, and fell down and died,* and the slaver and froth 
were round his lips. I crept back to my lair ; but I distinctly 
heard, all the night, the rock shake and tremble ; and, though 
the air was heavy and still, there were the hissing of pent winds, 
and the grinding as of wheels, beneath the ground. So, when 
I rose this morning at the very birth of dawn, I looked again 
down the abyss, and I saw vast fragments of stone borne black 
and floatingly over the lurid stream ; and the stream itself 
was broader, fiercer, redder than the night before. Then I went 
forth, and ascended to the summit ot the rock ; and in that sum- 
mit there appeared a sudden and vast hollow, which I had never 
perceived before, from which curled a dim, faint smoke ; and 
the vapor was deathly, and I gasped, and sickened, and nearly 
died. I returned home, I took my gold and my drugs, and left 
the habitation of many years ; for I remembered the dark Etrus- 
can prophecy which saith. When the mountain opens, the city 
shall fall — when the smoke crowns the Hill of the Parched 
Fields, there shall be woe and weeping in the hearths of the 
Children of the Sea. Dread master, ere I leave these walls for 
some more distant dwelling, I come to thee. As thou livest, 
know I in my heart that the earthquake that sixteen years 
ago shook this city to its solid base, was but the forerunner 
of more deadly doom. The walls of Pompeii are built above 
the fields of the Dead, and the rivers of sleepless Hell. Be 
warned and fly ! ” 

“ Witch, I thank thee for thy care of one not ungratefuL 
On yon table stands a cup of gold ; take it, it is thine. I 
dreamt not that there lived one, out of the priesthood of Isis, who 
would have saved Arbaces from destruction. The signs thou 
hast seen in the bed of the extinct volcano,” continued the 
Egyptian, musingly, “ surely tell of some coming danger to the 
city : perhaps another earthquake fiercer than the last. Be that 
as it may, there is a new reason for my hastening from these 
walls. After this day I will prepare my departure. Daughter 
of Etruria, whither wendest thou ? ” 

“ I shall cross over to Herculaneum this day, and wander- 
ing thence along the coast, shall seek out a new home. I am 

* We may suppose that the exhalations were similar in effect to those o< 
iSie Grott« d€ Cam§% 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


335 

friendless ; my two companions, the fox and the snake, are dead. 
Great Hermes, thou hast promised me twenty additional years 
<»£ life ! » 

“ Ay,” said the Egyptian, “ I have promised thee. But. 
woman,” he added, lifting himself upon his arm, and gazing 
curiously on her face, “tell me, I pray thee, wherefore thou 
wishest to live ? What sweets dost thou discover in existence ? ' 

“ It is not life that is sweet, but death that is awful,” replied 
the hag, in a sharp, impressive tone, that struck forcibly upon 
the heart of the vain star-seer. He winced at the truth of the 
reply ; and, no longer anxious to retain so uninviting a com- 
panion, he said, “ Time wanes ; I must prepare for the solemn 
spectacle of this day. Sister, farewell ! enjoy thyself as thou 
canst over the ashes of life.” 

The hag who had placed the costly gift of Arbaces in the 
loose folds of her vest, now rose to depart. When she had 
gained the door she paused, turned back, and said, “ This may 
be the last time we meet on earth ; but whither flieth the flame 
when it leaves the ashes ? — Wandering to and fro, up and down, 
as an exhalation on the morass, the flame may be seen in the 
marshes of the lake below ; and the witch and the Magian, the 
pupil and the master, the great one and the accursed one, may 
meet again. Farewell ! ” 

“ Out, croaker ! ” muttered Arbaces, as the door closed on 
the hag’s tattered robes ; and impatient of his own thoughts, 
not yet recovered from the past dream, he hastily summoned 
his slaves. 

It was the custom to attend the ceremonials of the amphi- 
tlieatre in festive robes, and Arbaces arrayed himself that day 
with more than usual care. His tunic was of the most dazzling 
white; his many fibulae were formed from the most precious 
stones ; over his tunic flowed a loose eastern robe, half-gown, 
half-mantle, glowing in the richest hues of the Tyrian dye ; and 
the sandals, that reached half-way up the knee, were studded 
with gems, and inlaid with gold. In the quackeries that belonged 
to his priestly genius, Arbaces never neglected, on great oc- 
casions, the arts which dazzle and impose upon the vulgar ; 
and on this day, that was forever to release him, by the sacrifice 
of Glaucus, from the fear of a rival and the chance of detection, 
he felt that he was arraying himself as for a triumph or a nuptial 
feast. 

It was customary for men of rank to be accompanied to the 
shows of the amphitheatre by a procession of their slaves and 
freedmen ; and the long “ family ” of Arbaces were already 
arranged in order, to attend the litter of their lord. 


THE LAST DA YS OF FOMPEII. 


336 


Only, to their great chagrin, the slaves in attendance on lone 
and the worthy Sosia, as jailer to Nydia, were condemned to 
remain at home. 

“ Callias,” said Arbaces, apart to his freedman, who was 
buckling on his girdle, “ I am weary of Pompeii ; I propose to 
quit it in three days, should the wind favor. Thou knowest 
the vessel that lies in the harbor which belonged to Narses, of 
Alexandria ; I have purchased it of him. The di.y after to 
morrow, we shall begin to remove my stores.” 

“ So soon ! ’Tis well. Arbaces shall be obeyed ; — and his 
ward, lone ? ” 

“ Accompanies me. Enough ! — Is the morning fair ? ” 

“ Dim and oppressive ; it will probably be intensely hot in 
the forenoon.” 

“ The poor gladiators, and more wretched criminals ? De- 
scend, and see that the slaves are marshalled.” 

Left alone, Arbaces stepped into his chamber of study, and 
thence upon the portico without. He saw the dense masses of 
men pouring fast into the amphitheatre, and heard the cry of 
the assistants, and the cracking of the cordage, as they were 
straining aloft the huge awning under which the citizens, mo- 
lested by no discomforting ray, were to behold, at luxurious ease, 
the agonies of their fellow-creatures. Suddenly a wild strange 
sound went forth, and as suddenly died away — it was the roar 
of the lion. There was a silence in the distant crowd ; but the 
silence was followed by joyous laughter — they were making 
merry at the hungry impatience of the royal beast. 

“ Brutes ! ” muttered the disdainful Arbaces, “ are ye less 
homicides than I am ? I slay but in self-defence — ye make 
murder pastime.” 

He turned, with a restless and curious eye, towards Vesu- 
vius. Beautifully glowed the green vineyards round its breast, 
and tranquil as eternity lay in the breathless skies the form of 
the mighty hill. 

“ We have time yet, if the earthquake be nursing, ” thought 
Arbaces ; and he turned from the spot. He passed by the table 
which bore his mystic scrolls and Chaldean calculations. 

“ August art ! ” he thought, “ I have not consulted thy de- 
crees since I passed the danger and the crisis they foretold 
What matter } — I know that henceforth all in my path is bright 
and smooth. Have not events already proved it? Away, 
doubt — away, pity ! Reflect, O my heart — reflect, for the future 
but two images — Empire and lone I ” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


33} 


CHAPTER II. 

The Amphitheatre. 

Nydia, assured by the account of Sosia, on his return home 
and satisfied that her letter was in the hands of Sallust, gavr 
herself up once more to hope. Sallust would surely lose no tim«^ 
in seeking the praetor — in coming to the house of the Egyptian 
— in releasing her — in breaking the prison of Calenus. That 
very night Glaucus would be free. Alas ! the night passed — 
the dawn broke ; she heard nothing but the hurried footsteps of 
the slaves along the hall and peristyle, and their voices in prep- 
aration for the show. By and by, the commanding voice of 
Arbaces broke on her ear — a flourish of music rang out cheer- 
ily ; the long processions were sweeping to the amphitheatre to 
glut their eyes on the death-pangs of the Athenian ! 

The procession of Arbaces moved along slowly, and with 
much solemnity, till now, arriving at the place where it was 
necessary for such as came in litters or chariots to alight, Arba- 
ces descended from his vehicle, and proceeded to the entrance 
by which the more distinguished spectators were admitted. 
His slaves, mingling with the humbler crowd, were stationed by 
officers who received their tickets (not much unlike our modem 
Opera ones), in places in the popular ia (the seats apportioned 
to the vulgar). And now, from the spot where Arbaces sat, his 
eyes scanned the mighty and impatient crowd that filled the 
stupendous theatre. 

On the upper tier (but apart from the male spectators) sat 
the women, their gay dresses resembling some gaudy flower- 
bed ; it is needless to add that they were the most talkative 
part of the assembly ; and many were the looks directed up to 
them, especially from the benches appropriated to the young 
and the unmarried men. On the lower seats round the arena 
sat the more-high-born and wealthy visitors — the magistrates 
and those of senatorial or equestrian * dignity : the passages 
which, by corridors at the right and left, gave access to these 
seats, at either end of the oval arena, were also the entrances 
for the combatants. Strong palings at these passages pre- 
vented any unwelcome eccentricity in the movements of the 
* The equites sat immediately behind the se^^ors. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


338 

beasts, and confined them to their appointed prey. Around 
the parapet which was raised above the arena, and from which 
the seats gradually rose, were gladiatorial inscriptions, and 
paintings wrought in fresco, typical of the entertainments for 
which the place was designed. Throughout the whole building 
wound invisible pipes, from which, as the day advanced, cool- 
ing and fragrant showers were to be sprinkled over the specta- 
tors. The officers of the amphitheatre were still employed in 
the task of fixing the vast awning (or velaria) which covered 
the whole, and which luxurious invention the Campanians ar 
rogated to themselves : it was woven of the whitest Apulian 
wool, and variegated with broad stripes of crimson. Owing 
either to some inexperience on the part of the workmen, or to 
some defect in the machinery, the awning, however, was not 
arranged that day so happily as usual ; indeed from the im- 
mense space of the circumference, the task was always one of 
great difficulty and art — so much so, that it could seldom be 
adventured in rough or windy weather. But the present day 
was so remarkably still, that there seemed to the spectators no 
excuse for the awkwardness of the artificers ; and when a large 
gap in the back of the awning was still visible, from the obsti- 
nate refusal of one part of the velaria to ally itself with the rest, 
the murmurs of discontent were loud and general. 

The aedile Pansa, at whose expense the exhibition was given, 
looked particularly annoyed at the defect, and vowed bitter 
vengeance on the head of the chief officer of the show, who 
fretting, puffing, perspiring, busied himself in idle orders and 
imavailing threats. 

The hubbub ceased suddenly — the operators desisted — ^the 
crowd were stilled — the gap was forgotten — for now, with a 
loud and warlike flourish of trumpets, the gladiators, mar- 
shalled in ceremonious procession, entered the arena. They 
swept round the oval space very slowly and deliberately, in 
order to give the spectators full leisure to admire their stem 
serenity of feature — their brawny limbs and various arms, as 
well as to form such wagers as the excitement of the momei/ 
might suggest. 

“ Oh ! ” cried the widow Fulvia to the wife of Pansa, as they 
leaned down from their lofty bench, ** do you see that gigantic 
gladiator ? how drolly he is dressed 1 ” 

“ Yes,” said the aedile ’s wife with complacent importance, 
for she knew all the names and qualities of each combatant ; 
“ he is a retiarius or netter ; he is armed only, you see. ^th a 
three-pronged spear like a trident, and a net ; he wears no arm^ 
only the fillet and the tu»'^ He is a mighty man, and is tt 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEix, 


339 

6ght with Sporus, yon thick-set gladiator, with the rouna shield 
and drawn sword, but without body armor ; he has not his helmet 
on now, in order that you may see his face — how fearless it is I 
— ^by and by he will fight with his vizor down.” 

“ But surely a net and a spear are poor arms against a shield 
and tjword ? ” 

“ That shows how innocent you are, my dear Fulvia ; the 
retiarius has generally the best of it.” 

“ But who is yon handsome gladiator, nearly naked — is it not 
quite improper ? By Venus ! but his limbs are beautifully 
shaped ! ” 

“ It is Lydon, a young untried man ! he has the rashness to 
fight yon other gladiator similarly dressed, or rather undressed 
— Tetraides. They fight first in the Greek fashion, with the 
cestus ; afterwards they put on armor, and try sword and 
shield.” 

“ He is a proper man, this Lydon ; and the women, I am sure, 
are on his side.” 

“ So are not the experienced bettors ; Clodius offers three to 
one against him.” 

“Oh, Jove! how beautiful I ” exclaimed the widow, as two 
gladiators, armed cap-a~piky rode round the arena on light and 
prancing steeds. Resembling much the combatants in the tilts 
of the middle age, they bore lances and round shields beauti- 
fully inlaid : their armor was woven intricately with bands of 
iron, but it covered only the thighs and the right arms ; short 
cloaks, extending to the seat, gave a picturesque and graceful 
air to their costume ; their legs were naked with the exception 
of sandals, which were fastened a little above the ankle. “ 01^ 
beautiful ! Who are these ? ” asked the widow. 

“ The one is named Berbix — he has conquered twelve times , 
the other assumes the arrogant name of Nobilior, They are 
both Gauls.” 

While thus conversing, the first formalities of the show were 
over. To these succeeded a feigned combat with wooden swords 
between the various gladiators matched against each other. 
Amongst these, the skill of two Roman gladiators, hired for the 
occasion, was the most admired ; and next to them the most 
graceful combatant was Lydon. This sham contest did not last 
above an hour, nor did it attract any very lively interest, except 
among those connoisseurs of the arena to whom art was prefer- 
able to more coarse excitement ; the body of the spectators were 
rejoiced when it was over, and when the sympathy rose to terror. 
The combatants were now arranged in pairs, as agreed before^ 
hand ; their weapons examined ; and the grave sports of the day 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


340 

commenced amidst the deepest silence — broken only by an excit« 
ing and preliminary blast of warlike music. 

It was often customary to begin the sports by the most cruel 
of all, and some bestiarius, or gladiator appointed to the beasts, 
was slain first, as an initiatory sacrifice. But in the present 
instance, the experienced Pansa thought it better that the 
sanguinary drama should advance, not decrease, in interest; 
and, accordingly, the execution of Olinthus and Glaucus was 
reserved for the last. It was arranged that the two horsemen 
should first occupy the arena ; that the foot gladiators, 
paired off, should then be loosed indiscriminately on the stagey 
that Glaucus and the lion should next perform their part in the 
bloody spectacle; and the tiger and the Nazarene be the grand 
finale. And, in the spectacles of Pompeii, the reader of Roman 
history must limit his imagination, nor expect to find those vast 
and wholesale exhibitions of magnificent slaughter with which a 
Nero or a Caligula regaled the inhabitants of the Imperial City. 
The Roman shows, which absorbed the more celebrated gladi* 
ators, and the chief proportion of foreign beasts, were indeed 
the very reason why, in the lesser towns of the empire, the sports 
of the amphitheatre were comparatively humane and rare ; and 
in this, as in other respects, Pompeii was but the miniature, the 
microcosm of Rome. Still, it was an awful and imposing spec- 
tacle, with which modern times have, happily, nothing to com- 

E are ; — a vast theatre, rising row upon row, and swarming with 
uman beings, from fifteen to eighteen thousand in number, in- 
tent upon no fictitious representation — no tragedy of the stage 
— ^but the actual victory or defeat, the exultant life or the 
bloody death, of each and all who entered the arena ! 

The two horsemen were now at either extremity of the lists 
(if so they might be called) ; and at a given signal from Pansa, 
the combatants started simultaneously as in full collision, each 
advancing his round buckler, each poising on high his light yet 
sturdy javelin ; but just when within three paces of his oppo- 
nent, the steed of Berbix suddenly halted, wheeled round, and, 
as Nobilior was borne rapidly by, his antagonist spurred upon 
him. The buckler of Nobilior, quickly and skilfully extended, 
received a blow which otherwise would have been fatal. 

“ Well done, Nobilior ! ” cried the praetor, giving the first 
vent to the popular excitement. 

“ Bravely struck, my Berbix ! answered Clodius from his 
seat. 

And the wild murmur, swelled by many a shout, echoed from 
side to side. 

The vizors of both the horsemen were comp’r^ely closed (like 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


341 

those of the knights in after times), but the head was, neverthe- 
less, the great point of assault : and Nobilior, now wheeling his 
charger with no less adroitness than his opponent, directed his 
spear full on the helmet of his foe. Berbix raised his buckler to 
shield himself, and his quick-eyed antagonist, suddenly lowering 
his weapon, pierced him through the breast. Berbix reeled 
and fell. 

“ Nobilior ! Nobilior ! ’’ shouted the populace. 

“ I have lost ten sestertia,” * said Clodius between his 
teeth. 

“ Habet / — he has it,” said Pansa, deliberately. 

The populace, not yet hardened into cruelty, made the signal 
of mercy; but as the attendants of the arena approached, 
they found the kindness came too late ; — the heart of the Gaul 
had been pierced, and his eyes were set in death. It was 
his life’s blood that flowed so darkly over the sand and saw- 
dust of the arena. 

“It is a pity it was so soon over — there was little enough 
for one’s trouble,” said the widow Fulvia. 

“ Yes — I have no compassisn for Berbix. Any one might 
have seen that Nobilior did but feint. Mark, they fix the fatal 
hook to the body — they drag him away to the spoliarium — they 
scatter new sand over the stage I Pansa regrets nothing more 
than that he is not rich enough to strew the arena with borax, 
and cinnabar, as Nero used to do.” 

“ Well, if it has been a brief battle, it is quickly succeeded. 
See my handsome Lydon on the arena — ay, and the net-bearer 
too, and the swordsmen ! Oh, charming ! ” 

There were now on the arena six combatants : Niger and his 
net, matched against Sporus with his shield and his short broad- 
sword ; Lydon and Tetraides, naked save by a cincture round 
the waist, each armed only with a heavy Greek cestus — and two 
gladiators from Rome, clad in complete steel, and evenly matched 
with immense bucklers and pointed swords. 

The initiatory contest between Lydon and Tetraides being 
less deadly than that between the other combatants, no sooner 
had they advanced to the middle of the arena than, as by com- 
mon consent, the rest held back, to see how that contest should be 
decided, and wait till fiercer weapons might replace the cestus, 
ere they they themselves commenced hostilities. They stood 
leaning on their arms and apart from each other, gazing on the 
show, which, if not bloody enough thoroughly to please the 
populace, they were still inclined to admire, because its origin 
was their ancestral Greece. 

* A little more than 


342 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


No pe*’son could, at first glance, have seemed less evenl) 
matched than the two antagonists. Tetraides, though not tallei 
than Lydon, weighed considerably more ; the natural size ol 
his muscles was increased, to the eyes of the vulgar, by masses of 
solid flesh ; for, as it was a notion that the contest of the cestu^i 
fared easiest with him who was plumpest, Tetraides had en- 
couraged to the utmost his hereditary predisposition to the 
porly. His shoulders were vast, and his lower limbs thickset, 
double-jointed, and slightly curved outward, in that formation 
which takes so much from beauty to give so largely to strength. 
But Lydon, except that he was slender even almost to meagre- 
ness, was beautifully and delicately proportioned : and the 
skilful might have perceived that with much less compass of 
muscle than his foe, that which he had was more seasoned- 
iron and compact. In proportion, too, as he wanted flesh, 
he was likely to possess activity : and a haughty smile on his 
resolute face, which strongly contrasted the solid heaviness of 
his enemy’s, gave assurance to those who beheld it, and united 
their hope to their pity : so that, despite the disparity of their 
seeming strength, the cry of the multitude was nearly as loud 
for Lydon as for Tetraides. 

Whoever is acquainted with the modern prize-ring — who- 
ever has witnessed the heavy and disabling stroke which the 
human fist, skilfully directed, hath the power to bestow — may 
easily understand how much that happy facility would be in- 
creased by a band carried by thongs of leather round the arm 
as high as the elbow, and terribly strengthened about the 
knuckles by a plate of iron, and sometimes a plumpet of lead. 
Yet this, which was meant to increase, perhaps rather dimin- 
ished, the interest of the fray ; for it necessarily shortened its 
duration. A very few blows, successfully and scientifically 
planted^ might suffice to bring the contest to a close ; and the 
battle did not, therefore, often allow full scope for the energy, 
fortitude, and dogged perseverance, that we technically style 
pluck, which not unusually wins the day against superior sci- 
ence, and which heightens to so painful a delight the interest 
in the battle and the sympathy for the brave. 

“ Guard thyself ! ” growled Tetraides, moving nearer and 
nearer to his foe, who rather shifted round him than re- 
ceded. 

Lydon did not answer, save by a scornful glance of his quick, 
vigilant eye. Tetraides struck — it was as the blow of a smith 
on a vice ; Lydon sank suddenly on one knee — the blow passed 
over his head. Not so harmless was Lydon’s retaliation : h® 
quickly sprang to his feet, and aimed his cestus full on the broad 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


343 

breast of his antagonist Tetraides reeled — ths populace 
shouted. 

“ You are unlucky to-day,” said Lepidus to Clodius;“you 
have lost one bet — you will lose another.’* 

•* By the gods ! my bronzes go to the auctioneer if that is the 
case. I have no less than a hundred sestertia * upon Tetraides. 
Ha, ha I see how he rallies 1 That was a home stroke : he 
has cut open Lydon's shoulder. — A Tetraides! — a Tetra- 
ides . ** 

“ But Lydon is not disheartened. By Pollux I how well he 
keeps his temper I See how dexterously he avoids those ham- 
mer-like hands I — dodging now here, now there — circling round 
and round. Ah, poor Lydon ! he has it again.’* 

“ Three to one still on Tetraides 1 What say you, Lepidus ? ** 

“ Well — nine sestertia to three — ^be it so I What ! again, 
Lydon. He stops — he gasps for breath. By the gods, he is 
down I No — he is again on his legs. Brave Lydon I Tetra- 
ides is encouraged — he laughs loud — he rushes on him.** 

“ Fool — success blinds him — he should be cautious. hr 
don’s eye is like a lynx’s ! said Clodius, between his teeth. 

“Ha, Clodius I saw you that? Your man totters I An- 
other blow — he falls — he falls I ** 

“ Earth revives him then. He is up once more up ; but the 
blood runs down his face.” 

“ By the thunderer! Lydon wins it. See how he presses 
on him ! That blow on the temple would have crushed an ox 1 
it /ias crushed Tetraides. He falls again — he cannot move—* 
iade/ ! — habet / *’ 

“ Habet ! ” repeated Pansa, “ Take them out and give them 
the armor and swords.” 

“Noble editor,” said the officers, “we fear that Tetraides 
will not recover in time ; howbeit, we will try.” 

“ Do so.” 

In a few minutes the officers, who had dragged off the 
stunned and insensible gladiator, returned with rueful coun- 
tenances. They feared for his life ; he was utterly incapaci- 
tated from re-entering the arena. 

“ In that case,” said Pansa, “hold Lydon a subditius ; and 
the first gladiator that is vanquished, let Lydon supply his place 
with the victor.” 

The people shouted their applause at this sentence : then 
they again sunk into deep silence. The trumpet sounded 
loudly. The four combatants stood each against each in pre- 
pared and stern array. 


• Above yTSoa 


344 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


Dost thou recognize the Romans, my Clodius ; are thej 
among the celebrated, or are they merely ordinarii ? ” 

“ Eumolpus is a good second-rate swordsman, my Lepidus. 
Nepimus, the lesser man, I have never seen before ; but he is 
the son of one of the imperial fiscales,* and brought up in a 
proper school ; doubtless they will show sport, but I have no 
heart for the game ; I cannot win back my money — I am un- 
done. Curses on that Lydon ! who could have supposed he 
was so dexterous or so lucky 1 ” 

Well, Clodius, shall I take compassion on you, and accept 
your own terms with these Romans ? ” 

“ An even ten sestertia on Eumolpus, then ? ** 

‘‘ What I when Nepimus is untried ? Nay, nay ; that is too 
bad.*’ 

“ Weil — ten to eight ? ” 

** A^eed.” 

While the contest in the amphitheatre had thus commenced, 
there was one in the loftier benches for whom it had assumed, 
indeed, a poignant — a stifling interest. The aged father of 
hydon, despite his Christian horror of the spectacle, in his 
agonized anxiety for his son, had not been able to resist being 
the spectator of his fate. One amidst a fierce crowd of stran- 
gers — the lowest rabble of the populace — the old man saw, 
felt nothing, but the form — the presence of his brave son ! 
Not a sound had escaped his lips when twice he had seen him 
fail to the earth ; — only he had turned paler, and his limbs 
trembled. But he had uttered one low cry when he saw him 
victorious ; unconscious, alas ! of the more fearful battle to 
which that victory was but a prelude. 

“ My gallant boy ! ” said he, and wiped his eyes. 

“ Is he thy son ? ” said a brawny fellow to the right of the 
Nazarene ; “ he has fought well : let us see how he does by and 
by. Hark ! he is to fight the first victor. Now, old boy, pray 
the gods that that victor be neither of the Romans ! nor, next 
to them, the giant Niger.” 

The old man sat down again and covered his face. The fray 
for the moment was indifferent to him — Lydon was not one of 
the combatants. Yet — yet — the thought flashed across him — 
the fray was indeed of deadly interest — the first who fell was to 
make way foi Lydon ! He started, and bent down, with strain- 
ing eyes and clasped hands, to view the encounter. 

The first interest was attracted towards the combat of Niger 
with Sporus ; for this species of contest, from the fatal result 
which usually attended it, and from the great science it required 
* Gladiators maintained by the emperor. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


345 

in either antagonist, was always peculiarly inviting to the spec- 
tators. 

They stood at a considerable distance from each other. The 
singular helmet which Sporus wore (the vizor of which was down) 
concealed his face ; but the features of Niger attracted a fearful 
and universal interest from their compressed and vigilant fero- 
city. Thus they stood for some moments, each eyeing each, 
until Sporus began slowly, and with great caution, to advance, 
holding his sword pointed, like a modern fencer’s, at the breast 
of his foe. Niger retreated as his antagonist advanced, gather- 
ing up his net with his right hand, and never taking his small 
glittering eye from the movements of the swordsman. Suddenly, 
when Sporus had approached nearly at arm’s length, the retia- 
rius threw himself forward, and cast his net. A quick inflection 
of body saved the gladiator from the deadly snare ; he uttered 
a sharp cry of joy and rage, and rushed upon Niger : but Niger 
had already drawn in his net, thrown it across his shoulders, 
and now fled round the lists with a swiftness which the secutor * 
In vain endeavored to equal. The people laughed and shouted 
aloud, to see the ineffectual efforts of the broad-shouldered 
gladiator to overtake the flying giant : when, at that moment, 
tiieir attention was turned from these to the two Roman com- 
batants. 

They had placed themselves at the onset face to face, at the 
distance of modern fencers from each other : but the extreme 
caution which both evinced at first had prevented any warmth 
of engagement, and allowed the spectators full leisure to interest 
themselves in the battle between Sporus and his foe. But the 
Romans were now heated into full and fierce encounter : they 
pushed — returned — advanced on — retreated from — each other 
with all that careful yet scarcely perceptible caution which char- 
acterizes men well experienced and equally matched. But at 
this moment, Eumolpus, the elder gladiator, by that dexterous 
back-stroke which was considered in the arena so difficult to 
avoid, had wounded Nepimus in the side. The people shouted; 
Lepidus turned pale. 

“ Ho ! ” said Clodius, “ the game is nearly over. If Eumol- 
pus fights now the quiet fight, the other will gradually bleed 
himself away.’’ 

“ But, thank the gods ! he does not fight the backward fight. 
See ! — he presses hard upon Nepimus. By Mars ! but Nepimus 
had him there ! the helmet rang again !— Clodius, I shall win ! ” 

* So called, from the office of that tribe of gladiators, mfollcnving the foe 
the moment the net was cast, in order to smite him ere he could have time 
to fe-arrapsre it. 


346 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


* Why do I ever bet but at the dice ? groaned Clodius to 
himself ; — “ or why cannot one cog a gladiator ? ” 

“ A Sporus ! — a Sporus ! ” shouted the populace, as Niger, 
now having suddenly paused, had again cast his net, and again 
unsuccessfully. He had not retreated this time with sufficient 
agility — the sword of Sporus had inflicted a severe wound upon 
his right leg ; and, incapacitated to fly, he was pressed hard by 
tlie fierce swordsman. His great height and length of arm still 
continued, however, to give him no despicable advantages ; and 
steadily keeping his trident at the front of his foe, he repelled 
him successfully for several minutes. Sporus now tried, by great 
rapidity of evolution, to get round his antagonist, who neces- 
sarily moved with pain and slowness. In so doing, he lost his 
caution — he advanced too near to the giant — raised his arm to 
strike, and received the three points of the fatal spear full in his 
breast ! He sank on his knee. In a moment more, the deadly 
net was cast over him, — he struggled against its meshes in vain ; 
again — again — again he writhed mutely beneath the fresh strokes 
of the trident — his blood flowed fast through the net and redly 
over the sand. He lowered his arms in acknowledgment of 
defeat. 

The conquering retiarius withdrew his net, and leaning on 
his spear, looked to the audience for their judgment. Slowly, 
too, at the same moment, the vanquished gladiator rolled his 
dim and despairing eyes around the theatre. From row to row, 
from bench to bench, there glared upon him but merciless and 
unpitying eyes. 

Hushed was the roar — the murmur ! The silence was 
dread, for in it was no sympathy ; not a hand — no, not even a 
woman’s hand — gave the signal of charity and life ! Sporus had 
never been popular in the arena ; and, lately, the interest of the 
combat had been excited on behalf of the wounded Niger. 
The people were warmed into blood — the w/w/V fight had ceased 
to charm ; the interest had mounted up to the desire of sacrifice 
and the thirst of death ! 

The gladiator felt that his doom was sealed ; he uttered no 
prayer — no groan. The people gave the signal of death ! In 
dogged but agonized submission, he bent his neck to receive 
the fatal stroke. And now, as the spear of the retiarius was 
not a weapon to inflict instant and certain death, there stalked 
into the arena a grim and fatal form, brandishing a short, 
sharp sword, and with features utterly concealed beneath its 
vizor. With slow and measured steps, this dismal headsman 
approached the gladiator, still kneeling — laid the left hand on 
his humbled crest — drew the edge of the blade across his neck 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


347 


—turned round to the assembly, lest, in the last moment, remorse 
should come upon them ; the dread signal continued the same : 
the blade glittered brightly in the air — fell — and the gladiator 
rolled upon the sand; his limbs quivered — were still, — he was 
a corpse.* 

His body was dragged at once from the arena through the 
gate of death, and thrown into the gloomy den termed technically 
the spoliarium. And ere it had well reached that destination, 
the strife between the remaining combatants was decided. The 
word of Eumolpus had inflicted the death-wound upon the less 
experienced combatant. A new victim was added to the 
receptacle of the slain. 

Throughout that mighty assembly there now ran a univer- 
sal movement ; the people breathed more freely, and resettled 
themselves in their seats. A grateful shower was cast over 
every row from the concealed conduits. In cool and luxurious 
pleasure they talk over the late spectacle of blood. Eumolpus 
removed his helmet, and wiped his brow ; his close-curled hair 
and short beard, his noble Roman features and bright dark eye, 
attracted the general admiration. He was fresh, unwounded, 
unfatigued. 

The editor paused, and proclaimed aloud that, as Niger’s 
wound disabled him from again entering the arena, Lydon was 
to be the successor to the slaughtered Nepimus, and the new 
combatant of Eumolpus. 

“ Yet, Lydon,” added he, “ if thou wouldst decline the com- 
bat with one so brave and tried, thou mayst have full liberty 
to do so. Eumclpus is not the antagonist that was originally 
decreed for thee. Thou knowest best how far thou canst cope 
with him. If thou failest, thy doom is honorable death ; if thou 
conquerest, out of my own purse I will double the stipulated 
prize.” 

The people shouted applause. Lydon stood in the lists, 
he gazed around; high above he beheld the pale face, the 
straining eyes, of his father. He turned away irresolute for 
a moment. No ! the conquest of the cestus was not sufficient 
— he had not yet won the prize of victory — his father was still a 
slave ! 

“ Noble aedile ! ” he replied, in a firm and deep tone, “ I shrink 
not from this combat. For the honor of Pompeii, I demand 
that one trained by its long-celebrated lanista shall do battle 
with this Roman.” 

The people shouted louder than before. 

♦ See the engraving from the friezes of Pomoeii in the work on that dtjf 
published in the “ Library of Entertaining Knowledge,” vol ii. p. 31 1. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


34S 

“ Four to one against Lydon ! ” said Clodias to Lepidus. 

“ I would not take twenty to one ! Why, Eumolpus is a 
very Achilles, and this poor fellow is but a tyro ! ” 

Eumolpus gazed hard on the face of Lydon ; he smiled ; yet 
the smile wds followed by a slight and scarce audible sigh — a 
touch of compassionate emotion, which custom conquered the 
moment the heart acknowledged it. 

And now both clad in complete armor, the sword drawn, 
the vizor closed, the two last combatants of the arena (ere 
man, at least, was matched with beast), stood opposed to each 
other. 

It was just at this time that a letter was delivered to the 
praetor by one of the attendants of the arena ; he removed the 
cincture — ^glanced over it for a moment — his countenance be- 
trayed surprise and embarrassment. He re-read the letter, and 
then muttering, — “ Tush ! it is impossible ! — The man mu§t be 
drunk, even in the morning, to dream of such follies ! ” — threw 
it carelessly aside and gravely settled himself once more in the 
attitude of attention to the sports. ‘ 

The interest of the public was wound up very high. Eu- 
molpus had at first won their favor; but the gallantry of 
Lydon, and his well-timed allusion to the honor of the Pom- 
peian lanista, had afterwards given the latter the preference in 
their eyes. 

“ Holla, old fellow ! ” said Medon’s neighbor to him, 
“ Your son is hardly matched ; but never fear, the editor will 
not permit him to be slain — no, nor the people neither; he 
has behaved too bravely for that. Ha ! that was a home thrust 1 
— well averted, by Pollux ! At him again, Lydon ! — they stop 
to breathe ! What art thou muttering, old boy ” 

“ Prayers ! ” answered Medon, with a more calm and hope- 
ful mien than he had yet maintained. 

“ Prayers ! — trifles ! The time for gods to carry a man 
away in a cloud is gone now. Ha, Jupiter ! — what a blow. Thy 
side — thy side ! — take care of thy side, Lydon ! ” 

There was a convulsive tremor throughout the assembly. 
A fierce blow from Eumolpus, full on the crest, had brought 
Lydon to his knee. 

“ Habet ! — he has it ! ” cried a shrill female voice ; “ he has 
it!” 

It was the voice of the girl who had so anxiously anticipated 
the sacrifice of some criminal to the beasts. 

“ Be silent, child ! ” said the wife of Pansa, haughtily. 
** Non habet / — he is not wounded I ” 

I wish he were, If only to spite old surly Medon,” muttereC 
the girl. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


349 


Meanwhile Lydon, who had hitherto defended himself with 
great skill and valor, began to give way before the vigorous 
assaults of the practised Roman ; his arm grew tired, his eye 
dizzy, he breathed hard and painfully. The combatants paused 
again for breath. 

“Young man,” said Eumolpus, in a low voice, “desist; I 
will wound thee slightly — then lower thy arms ; thou hast 
propitiated the editor and the mob — thou wilt be honorably 
saved ! ” 

“ And my father still enslaved ! ” groaned Lydon to himself. 
“ No ! death or his freedom.” 

At that thought, and seeing that, his strength not being 
equal to the endurance of the Roman, everything depended on 
a sudden and desperate effort, he threw himself fiercely on 
Eumolpus ; the Roman warily retreated — Lydon thrust again 
— Eumolpus drew himself aside — the sword grazed his cuirass 
— Lydon’s breast was exposed — the Roman plunged his sword 
through the joints of his armor, not meaning, however, to in- 
flict a deep wound ; Lydon, weak and exhausted, fell forward, 
fell right on the point : it passed through and through, even to 
the back. Eumolpus drew forth his blade ; Lydon still made 
an effort to regain his balance — his sword left his grasp — he 
struck mechanically at the gladiator with his naked hand, and 
fell prostrate on the arena. With one accord, editor and 
assembly made the signal of mercy — the officers of the arena 
approached — they took off the helmet of the vanquished. He 
still breathed ; his eyes rolled fiercely on his foe ; the savage- 
ness he had acquired in his calling glared from his gaze, and 
lowered upon the brow darkened already with the shades of 
death ; then with a convulsive groan, with a half-start, he lifted 
his eyes above. They rested not on the face of the editor nor 
on the pitying brows of his relenting judges. He saw them 
not ; they were as if the vast space was desolate and bare ; one 
pale agonizing face alone was all he recognized — one cry of a 
broken heart was all that, amidst the murmurs and shouts of 
the populace, reached his ear. The ferocity vanished from 
his brow : a soft, a tender expression of sanctifying but de- 
spKairing filial love played over his features — played — waned — 
darkened ? His face suddenly became locked and rigid, resum- 
ing its former fierceness. He fell upon the earth. 

“ Look to him,” said the aedile ; “ he has done his duty ! ” 

The officers dragged him off to the spoliarium. 

A true type of glory, and of its fate ! ” murmured Arba- 
ces to himself ; and his eye, glancing round the amphitheatre^ 
betrayed so much of disdain and scorn, that whoever encoun* 


THE LAST DA KS OF POMPEli, 


350 

tered it felt his breath suddenly arrested, and his emotions 
frozen into one sensation of abasement and of awe. 

Again rich perfumes were wafted around the theatre ; tha 
attendants sprinkled fresh sand over the arena. 

“ Bring forth the lion and Glaucus the Athenian,” said the 
editor. 

And a deep and breathless hush of overwrought interest, 
ard intense (yet, strange to say, not unpleasing) terror lay 
like a mighty and awful dream, over the assembly. 


CHAPTER III. 

Sallust and Nydia’s letter. 

Thrice had Sallust wakened from his morning sleep, and 
thrice, recollecting that his friend was that day to perish, had 
he turned himself with a deep sigh once more to court obliv- 
ion. He sole object in life was to avoid pain ; and where he 
could not avoid, at least to forget it. 

At length, unable any longer to steep his consciousness in 
slumber, he raised himself from his incumbent posture, and 
discovered his favorite freedman sitting by his bedside ai, 
usual ; for Sallust, who, as I have said, had a gentleman-like 
taste for the polite letters, was accustomed to be read to for 
an hour or so previous to his rising in the morning. 

“ No books to-day ’ no more Tibullus ! no more Pindar 
for me ! Pindar ! alas, alas ! the very name recalls those 
games to which our arena is the savage successor. Has it 
begun — the amphitheatre } are its rites commenced ? ” 

“ Long since, O Sallust ! Did you not hear the trumpets 
and the trampling feet ? ” 

Ay, ay ; but the gods be thanked, I was drowsy, and had 
only :o turn round to fall asleep again.” 

The gladiators must have been long in the ring ! ” 

The wretches ! None of my people have gone to the 
spectacle ? ” 

“ Assuredly not ; your orders were too strict.” 

“ That is well — would the day were over ! What is that 
letter yonder on the table ^ ” 

“That! Oh., the letter brought to you last night, when 
you were too — too ” 

“ Drunk to read it, I suppose. No matter, it cannot be of 
much importance ” 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEJI, 35 * 

Shall 1 open it for you, Sallust ? ** 

“ Do : anything to divert my thoughts. Poor Glaucus ! ^ 
The freedman opened the letter. “ What ! Greek ’’ said 
he ; “ some learned lady, I suppose.” He glanced over the 
letter, and for some moments the irregular lines traced by the 
blind girl’s hand puzzled him. Suddenly, however, his coun- 
tenance exhibited emotion and surprise. “ Good gods ! noble 
Sallust ! what have we done not to attend to this before ! 
Hear me read ! 

“ ‘ Nydia, the slave, to Sallust, the friend of Glaucus ! I 
am a prisoner in the house of Arbaces. Hasten to the praetor ! 
procure my release, and we shall yet save Glaucus from the 
lion. There is another prisoner within these walls, whose wit- 
ness can exonerate the Athenian from the charge against him ; 
— one who saw the crime — who can prove the criminal in a 
villain hitherto unsuspected. Fly ! hasten ! quick ! quick ! 
Bring with you armed men, lest resistance be made, — and a 
cunning and dexterous smith ; for the dungeon of my fellow- 
prisoner is thick and strong. Oh ! by thy right hand, and thy 
father’s ashes, lose not a moment ! ’ ” 

“ Great Jove ! ” exclaimed Sallust, starting, “ and this day 
— nay, within this hour, perhaps he dies. What is to be 
done ? I will instantly to the praetor.” 

“ Nay ; not so. The praetor (as well as Pansa, the editor 
himself) is the creature of the mob ; and the mob will not hear 
of delay ; they will not be balked in the very moment of ex- 
pectation. Besides, the publicity of the appeal would fore- 
warn the cunning Egyptian. It is evident that he has some 
interest in these concealments. No; fortunately thy slaves 
are in thy house.” 

“ I seize thy meaning,” interrupted Sallust ; “ arm the 
slaves instantly. The streets are empty. We will ourselves 
hasten to the house of Abraces, and release the prisoners. 
Quick ! quick ! What ho ! Davus there 1 My gown and 
sandals, the papyrus and a reed.* I will write to the praetor, 
to beseech him to delay the sentence of Glaucus, for that, 
within an hour, we may yet prove him innocent. So, so; 
that is well. Hasten with this, Davus, to the praetor, at the 
amphitheatre. See it given to his own hand. Now then, O 
ye gods ! whose providence Epicurus denied, befriend me, 
and I will call Epicurus a liar ! ” 

♦ The reed {calamus) was used for writing on papyrus and parchment ; the 
stylus, for writing on waxen tablets, plates or metal, etc. Letters were 
written sometimes on tablets, sometimes on papyrus. 


352 


THE LAST DA VS OF FOMFEIl. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The amphitheatre once more. 

Glaucus and Olinthus had been placed together in that 
gloomy and narrow cell in which the criminals of the arena 
awaited their last and fearful struggle. Their eyes, of late 
accustomed to the darkness, scanned the faces of each other 
in this awful hour, and by that dim light, the paleness, which 
chased away the natural hues from either cheek, assumed a 
yet more ashy and ghastly whiteness. Yet their brows were 
erect and dauntless — their limbs did not tremble — their lips 
were compressed and rigid. The religion of the one, the 
pride of the other, the conscious innocence of both, and it 
may be the support derived from their mutual companicm- 
ship, elevated the victim into the hero. 

“ Hark ! hearest thou that shout t They are growling over 
their human blood,” said Olinthus. 

“ I hear ; my heart grows sick ; but the gods support me.” 

“ The gods ! O rash young man ! in this hour recognize 
only the One God. Have I not taught thee in the dungeon, 
wept for thee, prayed for thee ? — in my zeal and in my agony, 
have I not thought more of thy salvation than my own .? ” 

Brave friend ! ” answered Glaucus, solemnly, “ I have 
listened to thee with awe, with wonder, and with a secret 
tendency towards conviction. Had our lives been spared, I 
might gradually have weaned myself from the tenets of my 
own faith, and inclined to thine; but, in this last hour, it 
were a craven thing and a base, to yield to hasty terror what 
should only be the result of lengthened meditation. Were I to 
embrace thy creed, and cast down my father’s gods, should 
I not be bribed by thy promise of heaven, or awed by thy 
threats of hell .? Olinthus, no ! Think we of each other with 
equal charity — I honoring thy sincerity — thou pitying my 
blindness or my obdurate courage. As have been my deeds, 
such will be my reward ; and the Power or Powers above will 
not judge harshly of human error, when it is linked with horn 
esty of purpose and truth of heart. Speak we no more of this. 
Hush ! Dost thou hear them drag yon heavy body through th^ 
passage ? Such as that clay will be ours soon.” 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPETT, 


353 

“ O Heaven ! O Christ ! already I behold ye I ” cned the 
^rvent Olinthus, lifting up his hands ; “ I tremble not — I re- 
joice that the prison-house shall be soon broken.” 

Glaucus bowed his head in silence. He felt the distinction 
between his fortitude and that of his fellow-sufferer. The 
heathen did not tremble ; but the Christian exulted. 

The door swung gratingly back — the gleam of spears shot 
along the walls. 

“ Glaucus the Athenian, thy time has come,” said a loud and 
clear voice ; “ the lion awaits thee.” 

“ I am ready,” said the Athenian. “ Brother and co-mate, 
one last embrace ! Bless me — and. farewell ! ” 

The Christian opened his arms — he clasped the young 
heathen to his breast — he kissed his forehead and cheek — he 
sobbed aloud — his tears flowed fast and hot over the features 
of his new friend. 

“ Oh ! could I have converted thee, I had not wept. Oh 1 
that I might say to thee, *We two shall sup this night in 
Paradise ! ^ ” 

“ It may be so yet,” answered the Greek with a tremulous 
voice, “They whom death parts now, may yet meet beyond 
the grave : on the earth — on the beautiful, the beloved earth, 
farewell forever ! — Worthy officer, I attend you.” 

Glaucus tore himself away ; and when he came forth into 
the air, its breath, which, though sunless, was hot and arid, 
smote witheringly upon him. His frame, not yet restored from 
the effects of the deadly draught, shrank and trembled. The 
officers supported him. 

“ Courage ! ” said one ; “ thou art young, active, well knit 
They give thee a weapon: despair not, and thou mayst yet 
conquer.” 

Glaucus did not reply ; but, ashamed of his infirmity, he 
made a desperate and convulsive effort, and regained the firm- 
ness of his nerves. They anointed his body, completely naked 
save by a cincture round the loins, placed the stilus (vain wea- 
pon !) in his hand, and, led him into the arena. 

And now when the Greek saw the eyes of thousands and 
tens of thousands upon him, he no longer felt that he was 
mortal. All evidence of fear — all fear itself — was gone. A red 
and haughty flush spread over the paleness of his features — he 
towered aloft to the full of his glorious stature. In the elastic 
beauty of his limbs and form, in his intent but unfrowning 
brow, in the high disdain, and in the indomitable soul, which 
breathed visibly, which spoke audibly, from his attitude, his lip, 
his eye — he seemed the very incarnation, vivid and corporeal, oi 

zx 


THE LAST DA KS* OF POMPEII, 


354 

the valor of his land — of the divinity of its worship — at once a 
hero and a god ! 

The murmur of hatred and horror at his crime, which had 
greeted his entrance, died into the silence of involuntary ad- 
miration and half-compassionate respect ; and, with a quick 
and convulsive sigh, that seemed to move the whole mass of 
life as if it were one body, the gaze of the spectators turned 
from the Athenian to a dark uncouth object in the centre of 
the arena. It was the grated den of the lion ! 

By Venus, how warm it is ! ” said Fulvia ; “yet there is no 
sun. Would that those stupid sailors * could have fastened 
up that gap in the awning ! ” 

“ Oh, it is warm, indeed. I turn sick — I faint ! ” said the 
wife of Pansa ; even her experienced stoicism giving way at the 
struggle about to take place. 

The lion had been kept without food for twenty-four 
hours, and the animal had, during the whole morning, testi- 
fied a singular and restless uneasiness, which the keeper had 
attributed to the pangs of hunger. Yet its bearing seemed 
rather that of fear than of rage ; its roar was painful and dis- 
tressed ; it hung its head — snuffed the air through the bars — 
then lay down — started again — and again uttered its wild and 
far-resounding cries. And now, in its den, it lay utterly dumb 
and mute, with distended nostrils forced hard against the grat- 
ing, and disturbing, with a heaving breath, the sand below on the 
arena. 

The editor’s lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale ; he looked 
anxiously around — hesitated — delayed; the crowd became im- 
patient. Slowly he gave the sign ; the keeper, who was behind 
the den, cautiously removed the grating, and the lion leaped 
forth with a mighty and glad roar of release. The keeper hast- 
ily retreated through the grated passage leading from the arena, 
and left the lord of the forest — and his prey. 

Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest 
posture at the expected rush of the lion, with his small and 
shining weapon raised on high, in the faint hope that 07ie well- 
directed thrust (fc: he knew that he should have time but for 
one) might penetrate through the eye to the brain of his grim 
foe. 

But, to the unutterable astonishment of all, the beast seemed 
not even aware of the presence of the criminal. 

At the first moment of its release it halted abruptly in the 
arena, raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with im« 

♦ SaUors were generally employed in fastening the velaria erf th« 
amphitheatre. 


fHE L^ST YS OF POMPEII. 


355 

patient signs ; then suddenly .v sprang forward, but not on the 
Athenian. At haJ peed it circled round and round the space, 
turning its vast hea ’ from side to side with an anxious and per- 
turbed gaze, as if seeking only some avenue of escape ; once or 
twice it endeavored to leap up the parapet that divided it from 
the audience, and, on failing, uttered rather a baffled howl than 
its deep-toned and kingly roar. It evinced no sign, either or 
wrath or hunger ; its tail drooped along the sand, instead ot 
lashing its gaunt sides ; and its eye, though it wandered at times 
to Glaucus, rolled again listlessly from him. At length, as if 
tired of attempting to escape, it crept with a moan into its cage, 
and once more laid itself down to rest. 

The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the lion 
soon grew converted into resentment at its cowardice ; and the 
populace already merged their pity for the fate of Glaucus into 
angry compassion for their own disappointment. 

The editor called to the keeper. 

“ How is this } Take the goad, prick him forth, and then 
close the door of the den.” 

As the keeper, with some fear, but more astonishment, was 
preparing to obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances 
of the arena ; there was a confusion, a bustle — voices of remon- 
strance suddenly breaking forth, and suddenly silenced at the 
reply. All eyes turned in wonder at the interruption, towards 
the quarter of the disturbance ; the crowd gave way, and sud- 
denly Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair dis- 
hevelled — breathless — heated — half-exhausted. He cast his 
eyes hastily round the ring. “ Remove the Athenian ! ” he cried ; 

haste — he is innocent ! Arrest Arbaces tie F^yptian — he is 
the murderer of Apaecides ! ” 

“ Ai t thou mad, O Sallust ! ” said the praetor, rising from his 
seat. ‘‘ What means this raving ? ” 

“ Remove the Athenian ! — Quick ! or his blood be on your 
head. Praetor, delay, and you answer with your own life to the 
emperor ! I bring with me the eye-witness to the death of the 
priest Apaecides. Room there ! — stand back ! — give way ! 
People of Pompeii, fix every eye upon Arbaces — there he sits' 
Room there for the priest Calenus ! ” 

Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and of death, 
his face fallen, his eyes dull as a vulture’s, his broad frame gaunt 
as a skeleton,— Calenus was supported into the very row in 
which Arbaces sat. His releasers had given him sparingly of 
food ; but the chief sustenance that nerved his feeble limbs was 
revenge ! 

“ The priest Calen.^ ! — Calenus ! ” cried the mob. “ Is H 
he ? No — is a dead Miaai” 


35 ^ 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


It /jthe priest Calenus,” said the praetor, gravely. What 
hast thou to say ? 

“ Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apaecides, the priest 
of Isis ; these eyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the dun- 
geon into which he plunged me — it is from the darkness and 
horror of a death by famine — that the gods have raised me to 
proclaim his crime ! Release the Athenian — he is innocent ! ” 

“ It is for this, then, that the lion spared him. — A miracle 1 
a miracle ! ” cried Pansa. 

“ A miracle ! a miracle ! ” shouted the people ; “ remove the 
Athenian — Arbaces to the lion / 

And that shout echoed from hill to vale — from coast to sea 
— Arbaces to the lion / ” 

“ Officers, remove the accused Glaucus — remove, but guard 
him yet,” said the praetor. “ The gods lavish their wonders upon 
this day.” 

As the praetor gave the word of release, there was a cry of 
joy — a female voice — a child’s voice — and it was of joy ! It 
rang through the heart of the assembly with electric force — it 
was touching, it was holy, that child’s voice ! And the popu- 
lace echoed it back with sympathizing congratulation ! 

“ Silence ! ” said the great praetor — “ who is there ? ” 

“ The blind girl — Nydia,” answered Sallust ; “ it is her 
hand that has raised Calenus from the grave, and delivered 
Glaucus from the lion.” 

‘‘ Of this hereafter,” said the praetor. “ Calenus, priest of 
Isis, thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of Apaecides ? ” 

‘‘ I do I ” 

“ Thou didst behold the deed ? ” 

Praetor — with these eyes ” 

‘‘ Enough at present — the details must b« reserved for 
more suiting time and place. Arbaces of Egypt, thou hearest 
the charge against thee — thou hast not yet spoken — what hast 
thou to say ? ” 

The gaze of the crowd had been long riveted on Arbaces : 
but not until the confusion which he had betrayed at the first 
charge of Sallust and the entrance of Calenus had subsided. 
At the shout, “ Arbaces to the lion ! ” he had indeed trembled, 
and the dark bronze of his cheek had taken a paler hue. But 
he had soon recovered his haughtiness and self-control. 
Proudly he returned the angry glare of the countless eyes 
around him ; and replying now to the question of the praetor, he 
said, in that accent so peculiarly tranquil and commanding, 
which characterized his tones, — 

“ Praetor, this charge is so mad that it scarcelv deserves 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


357 

reply. My first accuser is the noble Sallust — the most inti 
mate friend of Glaucus ! my second is a priest ; I revere his 
garb and calling — but, people of Pompeii ! ye know some- 
what of the character of Calenus — he is griping and gold- 
thirsty to a proverb ; the witness of such men is to be bought ! 
Praetor, I am innocent ! ” 

“ Sallust,” said the magistrate, “ where found you Calenus ? ” 
In the dungeons of Arbaces.” 

^ E^ptian,” said the praetor, frowning, “ thou didst, then 
dare to imprison a priest of the gods — and wherefore ” 

“ Hear me,” answered Arbaces, rising calmly, but with agi- 
tation visible in his face. “ This man came to threaten that he 
would make against me the charge he has now made, unless I 
would purchase his silence with half my fortune : I remon- 
strated — in vain. Peace there — let not the priest interrupt me ! 
Noble praetor — and ye, O people ! I was a stranger in the land 
— I knew myself innocent of crime — but the witness of a priest 
against me might yet destroy me. In my perplexity I decoyed 
him to the cell whence he has been released, on pretence that 
it was the coffer-house of my gold. I resolved to detain him 
there until the fate of the true criminal was sealed, and his 
threats could avail no longer ; but I meant no worse. I may 
have erred — but who amongst ye will not acknowledge the 
equity of self-preservation } Were I guilty, why was the wit- 
ness of this priest silent at the trial ? — then I had not detained 
or concealed him. Why did he not proclaim my guilt when I 
proclaimed that of Glaucus ? Praetor, this needs an answer. 
For the rest, I throw myself on your laws. I demand their 
protection. Remove hence the accused and the accuser. I 
will willingly meet, and cheerfully abide by, the decision of the 
legitimate tribunal. This is no place for further parley.” 

“ He says right,” said the praetor. “ Ho ! guards — remove 
Arbaces — ^guard Calenus ! Sallust, we hold you responsible for 
your accusation. Let the sports be resumed.” 

“ What ! ” cried Calenus, turning round to the people, 
“ shall Isis be thus contemned ? Shall the blood of Apaecides 
yet cry for vengeance ^ Shall justice be delayed now, that it 
may be frustrated hereafter i Shall the lion be cheated of his 
lawful prey ? A god ! a god I — I feel the god rush to my lips ! 
To the Hon — to the lion with Arbaces 

His exhausted frame could support no longer the ferocious 
malice of the priest ; he sank on the ground in strong convul- 
sions — the foam gathered to his mouth — he was as a man, in- 
deed, whom a supernatural power had entered I The people 
saw, and shuddered. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


358 

It is a god that inspires the holy man ! — To the lion with 
the Egyptian / ” 

With that cry up sprang — on moved — thousands upon 
thousands ! They rushed from the heights — they poured 
down in the direction of the Egyptian. In vain did the aedila 
command — in vain did the praetor lift his voice and proclaim 
the law. The people had been already rendered savage by 
the exhibition of blood — they thirsted for more — their super- 
stition was aided by their ferocity. Aroused — inflamed by the 
spectacle of their victims, they forgot the authority of their 
rulers. It was one of those dread popular convulsions com- 
mon to crowds wholly ignorant, half free and half servile ; 
and which the peculiar constitution of the Roman provinces 
so frequently exhibited. The power of the praetor was as a 
reed beneath the whirlwind ; still, at his word the guards had 
drawn themselves along the lower benches, on which the up- 
per classes sat separate from the vulgar. They made but a 
feeble barrier — the waves of the human sea halted for a mo- 
ment, to enable Arbaces to count the exact moment of his 
doom I In despair, and in a terror which beat down even 
pride, he glanced his eyes over the rolling and rushing crowd 
— when, right above them, through the wide chasm which had 
been left in the velaria, he beheld a strange and awful appa- 
rition — he beheld — and his craft restored his courage ! 

He stretched his hand on high ; over his lofty brow and 
royal features there came an expression of unutterable solem- 
nity and command. 

“ Behold ! ” he shouted with a voice of thunder, which 
stilled the roar of the crowd ; “ behold how the gods protect 
the guiltless ! The fires of the avenging Orcus burst forth 
against the false witness of my accusers ! ” 

The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyp- 
tian, and beheld, with ineffable dismay, a vast vapor shooting 
from the summit of Vesuvius, in the form of a gigantic pine- 
tree ; * the trunk, blackness, — the branches, fire ! — a fire that 
shifted and wavered in its hues with every moment, now 
fiercely luminous, now of a dull and dying red, that again 
blazed terrifically forth with intolerable glare ! 

There was a dead, heart-sunken silence — through which 
there suddenly broke the roar of the lion, which was echoed 
back from within the building by the sharper and fiercer yells 
of its fellow-beast. Dread seers were they of the Burden of 
the Atmosphere, and wild prophets of the wrath to come ? 

Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women ; 

* Pliny. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


359 

ihe men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that mo- 
ment they felt the earth shake beneath their feet ; the walls of 
the theatre trembled and, beyond in the distance, they heard 
the crash of falling roofs ; an instant more and the mountain- 
cloud seemed to roll towards them, dark and rapid, like a tor- 
rer t ; at the same time, it cast forth from its bosom a shower 
of ashes mixed with vast fragments of burning stone ! Over 
the crushing vines, — over the desolate streets, — over the am- 
phitheatre itself,— far and wide, — ^with many a mighty splash 
in the agitated sea, — ^fell that awful shower ! 

No longer thought the crowd of justice or of Arbaces ; 
safety for themselves was their sole thought. Each turned 
to fly — each dashing, pressing, crushing, against the other. 
Trampling recklessly over the fallen — amidst groans, and 
oaths, and prayers, and sudden shrieks, the enormous crowd 
vomited itself forth through the numerous passages. Whither 
should they fly ? Some, anticipating a second earthquake, 
hastened to their homes to load themselves with their most 
costly goods, and escape while it was yet time ; others, dread- 
ing the showers of ashes that now fell fast, torrent upon tor- 
rent, over the streets, rushed under the roofs of the nearest 
houses, or temples, or sheds — shelter of any kind — for protec- 
tion from the terrors of the open air. But darker, and larger, 
and mightier, spread the cloud above them. It was a sudden 
and more ghastly Night rushing upon the realm of Noon ? 


CHAPTER V. 

The cell of the prisoner and the den of the dead. — Grief unconscious of 

horror. 

Stunned by his reprieve, doubting that he was awak-e^ 
Glaucus had been led by the officers of the arena into a small 
cell within the walls of the theatre. They threw a loose robe 
over his form, and crowded round in congratulation and won- 
der. There was an impatient and fretful cry without the cell ; 
the throng gave way, and the blind girl, led by some gentler 
hand, flung herself at the feet of Glaucus. 

“ It is I who have saved thee,” she sobbed ; now let me 
die ! ” 

“ Nydia, my child ! — my preserver ! 

“Oh, let me feel thy touch — thy breatft! Yes, yes. thou 
Uvest I We are not too late ! That dread door, methought il 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


360 

would never yield ! and Calenus-— oh ! his voice was as th6 
dying wind among tombs : — we had to wait, — ^godi. I it seemed 
hours ere food and wine restored to him something of strength. 
But thou livest ! thou livest yet ! And 1 — / have saved thee ! ” 

This affecting scene was soon interrupted by the event 
just described. 

The mountain ! the earthquake ! resounded from side to 
side. The officers fled with the rest ; they left Glaucus and 
Nydia to save themselves as they might. 

As the sense of the dangers around them flashed on the 
Athenian, his generous heart recurred to Olinthus. He, too 
was reprieved from the tiger by the hand of the gods ; should 
he be left to a no less fatal death in the neighboring cell ? 
Taking Nydia by the hand, Glaucus hurried across the pas- 
sages ; he gained the den of the Christian. He found Olin- 
thus kneeling, and in prayer. 

“ Arise ! arise ! my friend,” he cried. “ Save thyself, and 
fly ! See ! Nature is thy dread deliverer ! ” He led forth the 
bewildered Christian, and pointed to a cloud which advanced 
darker and darker, disgorging forth showers of ashes and pumice 
stones ; — and bade him hearken to the cries and trampling rush 
of the scattered crowd. 

“ This is the hand of God — God be praised ! ” said Olinthus, 
devoutly. 

“ Fly ! seek thy brethren ! Concert with them thy escape. 
Farewell ! ” 

Olinthus did not answer, neither did he mark the retreating 
form of his friend. High thoughts and solemn absorbed his 
soul ; and in the enthusiasm of his kindling heart, he exulted in 
the mercy of God rather than trembled at the evidence of His 
power. 

At length he roused himself, and hurried on, he scarce knew 
whither. 

The open doors of a dark, desolate cell suddenly appeared 
on his path ; through the gloom within there flared and flick- 
ered a single lamp ; and by its light he saw three grim and 
naked forms stretched on the earth in death. His feet were 
suddenly arrested ; for, amidst the terrors of that drear recess 
— the spoliarium of the arena — he heard a low voice calling on 
the name of Christ ! 

He could not resist lingering at that appeal ; he entered the 
den, and his feet were dabbled in the slow streams of blood 
that gushed from the corpses over the sand. 

“ Who,” said the Nazarene, “ calls upon the Son of God .> ” 

No answer came forth ; and turning round, Olinthus be 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 


361 

held, by the light of the lamp, an old gray-headed man sitting 
on the floor, and supporting in his lap the head of one of the 
dead. The features of the dead man were firmly and rigidly 
locked in the last sleep ; but over the lip there played a fierce 
smile — not the Christian’s smile of hope, but the dark sneer of 
hatred and defiance. 

Yet on the face still lingered the beautiful roundness of 
early youth. The hair curled thick and glossy over the un- 
wrinkled brow ; and the down of manhood but slightly shaded 
the marble of the hueless cheek. And over this face bent one 
of such unutterable sadness — of such yearning tenderness — of 
such fond, and such deep despair I The tears of the old man 
fell fast and hot, but he did not feel them ; and when his lips 
moved, and he mechanically uttered the prayer of his benign 
and hopeful faith, neither his heart nor his sense responded 
to the words : it was but the involuntary emotion that broke 
from the lethargy of his mind. His boy was dead, and had 
died for him ! — and the old man’s heart was broken I 

“ Medonl ” said Olinthus, pityingly, “arise, and fly I God 
is forth upon the wings of the elements I The New Gomorrah 
is doomed ! — Fly, ere the fires consume thee ! ” 

“ He was ever so full of life ! — ^he cannot be dead I Come 
hither ! — place your hand on his heart I — sure it beats yet ? ” 

“ Brother, the soul has fled I — we will remember it in oui 
prayers I Thou canst not reanimate the dumb clay I Come, 
come, — hark 1 while I speak, yon crashing walls 1 — hark I yor 
agonizing cries ! Not a moment is to be lost ! — Come I ” 

“ I hear nothing ! ” said Medon, shaking his gray hair. 
^ The poor boy, his love murdered him I ” 

“ Come 1 come ! forgive this friendly force.” 

“ What I Who would sever the father from the son ? ” And 
Medon clasped the body tightly in his embrace, and covered it 
with passionate kisses. “ Go ! ” said he, lifting up his face for 
one moment. “ Go ! — we must be alone ! ” 

“ Alas ! ” said the compassionate Nazarene. “ Death hath 
severed ye already ! ” 

The old man smiled very calmly. “ No, no, no ! ” he mut- 
tered, his voice growing lower with each word, — “ Death has 
been more kind ! ” 

With that his head drooped on his son’s breast — ^his arms 
relaxed their grasp. Olinthus caught him by the hand — the 
pulse had ceased to beat 1 The last words of the father were 
the words of truth, — Death had been more kind / 

Meanwhile, Glaucus and Nydia were pacing swiftly up the 
perilous and fearful streets. The Athenian had learned from 


rJIS LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


562 

his preserver that lone was yet in the house of Aibacca 
Thither he fled, to release — to save her ! The few slaves whom 
the Eg)'ptian had left at his mansion when he bad repaired in 
long procession to the amphitheatre, had been able to offer no 
resistance to the armed band of Sallust; and when afterwards 
the volcano broke forth they had huddled together, stunned 
and frightened, in the inmost recesses of the house. Even the 
tall Ethiopian had forsaken his post at the doer ; and Glaucus 
(who left Nydia without — the poor Nydia, jealous once more, 
even in such an hour !) passed on through the vast hall with* 
out meeting one from whom to learn the chamber of lone. 
Even as he passed, however, the darkness that covered the 
heavens increased so rapidly, that it was with difficulty he 
couid guide his steps. The flower-wreathed columns seemed 
to reel and tremble ; and with every instant he heard the ashes 
fall cranchingly into the roofless peristyle. He ascended to 
the upper rooms — breathless he paced along, shouting out 
aloud the name of lone ; and at length he heard, at the end of 
a gallery, a voice — her voice, in wondering reply ! To rush 
forward — to shatter the door — to seize lone in his arms — to 
hurry from the mansion — seemed to him the work of an instant I 
Scarce had he gained the spot where Nydia was, than he heard 
steps advancing towards the house, and recognized the voice 
of Arbaces, who had returned to seek his wealth and lone ere 
he fled from the doomed Pompeii. But so dense was already 
the reeking atmosphere, that the foes saw not each other, 
though so near, — save that, dimly in the gloom, Glaucus caught 
the moving outline of the snowy robes of the Egyptian. 

They hastened onw^ard — those three ! Alas ! — whither ? 
They now saw not a step before them — the blackness became 
utter. They were encompassed with doubt and horror ! — and 
the death he had escaped seemed to Glaucus only to have 
clianged its form and augmented its victims. 


CHAPTER VI, 

Calenus and Burbo. — Diomed and Clodius. — The girl of the amphitheatre 
and Julia. 

The sudden catastrophe which had, as it were, riven the 
very bonds of society, and left prisoner and jailer alike free, 
had soon rid Calenus of the guards to whose care the praeto' 
had consigned him. And when the darkness and the crowd 


THE LAST DA VS OP POMPEIJ. 


363 

separated the priest from his attendants, he hastened with tren> 
bling steps towards the temple of his goddess. As he crept 
along, and ere the darkness was complete, he felt himself sud* 
denly caught by the robe, and a voice muttered in his ear,— 
“ Hist ! — Calenus ! — an awful hour ! ” 

“ Ay ! by my father’s head ! Who art thou ? — thy face is 
dim, and thy voice is strange ! ” 

“ Not know thy Burbo ? — fie ! ’* 

“ Gods ! — how the darkness gathers ! Ho, ho ; — ^by yon 
terrific mountain, what sudden blazes of lightning ! * — How 
they dart and quiver ! Hades is loosed on earth ! ” 

“Tush! — thou believest not these things, Calenus I Now 
is the time to make our fortune 1 ” 

“ Ha ! ” 

“ Listen ! Thy temple is full of gold and precious mum* 
meries 1 — let us load ourselves with them, and then hasten to 
the sea and embark! None will ever ask an account of the 
doings of this day.” 

“ Burbo, thou art right 1 Hush I and follow me into the 
temple. Who cares now — who sees now — whether thou art a 
priest or not ? Follow, and we will share.” 

In the precincts of the temple were many priests gathered 
around the altars, praying, weeping, groveling in the dust 
Impostors in safety, they were not the less superstitious in 
danger! Calenus passed them, and entered the chamber yet 
to be seen in the south side of the court. Burbo followed 
him — the priest struck a light. Wine and viands strewed the 
table ; the remains of a sacrificial feast. 

“ A man who has hungered forty-eight hours,” muttered 
Calenus, “has an appetite even in such a time.” He seized 
on the food, and devoured it greedily. Nothing could, per* 
haps, be more unnaturally horrid than the selfish baseness of 
these villains ; for there is nothing more loathsome than the 
valor of avarice. Plunder and sacrilege while the pillars of 
the world tottered to and fro ! What an increase to the 
terrors of nature can be made by the vices of man ! 

“ Wilt thou never have done ? ” said Burbo, impatiently ; 
♦*thy face purples and thine eyes start already.” 

“ It is not every day one has such a right to be hungry. 
Oh, Jupiter ! what sound is that? — the hissing of fiery water I 
What ! does the cloud give rain as well as flamel Ha ! — what I 
shrieks ? And, Burbo, how silent all is now 1 Look forth 1 ” 

* Volcanic lightnings. These phenomena were especially the characteristic 
of the long-subsequent eruption of 1779, and their evidence is visible in th# 
tokens ot that more awful one, now so inperfectly described. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


Amidst the other horrors, the mighty mountain now cast 
up columns of boiling water. Blent and kneaded with the 
half-burning ashes, the streams fell like seething mud over the 
streets in frequent intervals. And full, where the priests of Isis 
had now cowered around the altars, on which they had vainly 
sought to kindle fires and pour incense, one of the fiercest of 
those deadly torrents, mingled with immense fragments of 
scoria, had poured its rage. Over the bended forms of the 
priests it dashed ; that cry had been of death — that silence had 
been of eternity ! The ashes — the pitchy stream— sprinkled the 
altars, covered the pavement, and half concealed the quivering 
corpses, of the priests ! 

“ They are dead,” said Burbo, terrified for the first time, and 
hurrying back into the cell. “ I thought not the danger wa;; 
so near and fatal.” 

The two wretches stood staring at each other — you might 
have heard their hearts beat ! Calenus, the less bold by nat- 
ure, but the most griping, recovered first. 

We must to our task, and away ! ” he said, in a low whis- 
per, frightened at his own voice. He stepped to the thresh- 
old, paused, crossed over the heated fioor and his dead breth- 
ren to the sacred chapel, and called to Burbo to follow. But 
the gladiator quaked, and drew back. 

“So much the better,” thought Calenus; “the more will 
be my booty.” Hastily he loaded himself with the more port- 
able treasures of the temple ; and thinking no more of his com- 
rade, hurried from the sacred place. A sudden flash of lightning 
from the mount showed to Burbo, who stood motionless at the 
threshold, the flying and laden form of the priest. He took 
heart ; he stepped forth to join him, when a tremendous shower 
of ashes fell right before his feet. The gladiator shrank back 
once more. Darkness closed him in. But the shower contin- 
ued fast — fast ; its heaps rose high and suifocatingly — deathly 
vapors steamed from them. The wretch gasped for breath — 
he SOI 'ght in despair again to fly — the ashes had blocked up the 
threshold — he shrieked as his feet shrank from the boiling fluid. 
How could he escape ? — he could not climb to the open space *, 
nay, were he able he could not brave its horrors. It were 
best to remain in the cell, protected, at least, from the fatal air. 
He sat down and clenched his teeth. By degrees, the atmos- 
phere from without — stifling and venomous — crept into the 
chamber. He could endure it no longer. His eyes, glaring 
round, rested on a sacrificial axe, which some priest had left in 
the chamber : he seized it. With the desperate strength of his 
gigantic arm, he attempted to hew his way through the walls. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


305 

Meanwhile, the streets were already thinned ; the crowd 
had hastened to disperse itself under shelter ; the ashes began 
to fill up the lower parts of the town ; but, here and there, you 
heard the steps of fugitives cranching them warily, or saw their 
pale and haggard faces by the blue glare of the lightning, or 
the more unsteady glare of torches, by which they endeavoied 
to steer their steps. But ever and anon, the boiling water, or 
the straggling ashes, mysterious and gusty winds, rising and 
dying in a breath, extinguished these wandering lights, and 
with them the last living hope of those who bore them. 

In the street that leads to the gate of Herculaneum, Clodius 
now bent his perplexed and doubtful way. “ If I can gain the 
open country,” thought he, “doubtless there will be various 
vehicles beyond the gate, and Herculaneum is not far distant 
Thank Mercury I I have little to lose, and that little is about 
me!” 

“ Holla ! — help there — help ! ” cried a querulous and fright- 
ened voice. “ I have fallen down — my torch has gone out 
— my slaves have deserted me. I am Diomed — ^the rich Dio- 
med ; — ten thousand sesterces to him who helps me ! ” 

At the same moment, Clodius felt himself caught by the feet 
111 fortune to thee, — let me go, fool I ” said the gambler. 

“ Oh, help me up I — ^give me thy hand I ” 

“ There — rise ! ” 

“ Is this Clodius ? I know the voice ! Whither fliest thou ? ” 

“ Towards Herculaneum.” 

“ Blessed be the gods ! our way is the same, then, as far as 
the gate. Why not take refuge in my villa ? Thou knowest 
the long range of subterranean cellars beneath the basement, 
— that shelter, what shower can penetrate ? ” 

“ You speak well,” said Clodius, musingly. “ And by 
Storing the cellar with food, we can remain there even some 
days, should these wondrous storms endure so long.” 

“ Oh, blessed be he who invented gates to a city I ” cried 
Diomed. “ See I — they have placed a light within yon arch : 
by that let us guide our steps.” 

The air was now still for a few minutes : the lamp from the 
gate streamed out far and clear : the fugitives hurried on — they 
gained the gate — they passed by the Roman sentry ; the light- 
ning flashed over his livid face and polished helmet, but his 
stern features were composed even in their awe ! He re- 
mained erect and motionless at his post. That hour itself had 
not animated the machine of the ruthless majesty of Rome 
into the reasoning and self-acting man. There he stood. 


^66 THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 

amidst the crashing elements : he had not received the permis 
sion to desert his station and escape.* 

Diomed and his companion hurried on, when suddenly a 
female form rushed athwart their way. It was the girl whoso 
ominous voice had been raised so often and so gladly in an- 
ticipation of “ the merry show ! ” 

“ Oh, Diomed ! ” she cried, shelter ! shelter I See,” — 
pointing to an infant clasped to her breast — “ see this little 
one ! — it is mine ! — the child of shame ! I have never owned 
it till this hour. But now I remember I am a mother ! I have 
plucked it from the cradle of its nurse : she had fled ! Who 
could think of the babe in such an hour but she who bore it ? 
Save it ! save it ! ” 

“ Curses on thy shrill voice ! Away, harlot ! ” muttered 
Clodius between his ground teeth. 

“ Nay, girl,” said the more humane Diomed ; “ follow if 
thou wilt. This way — this way — to the vaults ! ” 

They hurried on — they arrived at the house of Diomed — 
they laughed aloud as they crossed the threshold, for they 
deemed the danger over. 

Diomed ordered his slaves to carry down into the subter- 
ranean gallery, before described, a profusion of food and oil 
for lights ; and there Julia, Clodius, the mother and her babe, 
the greater part of the slaves, and some frightened visitors and 
clients of the neighborhood, sought their shelter. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The progress of the destruction. 

The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness o^ei 
the day, had now settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. 
It resembled less even the thickest gloom of a night in the open 
air than the close and blind darkness of some narrow room.f 
But in proportion as the blackness gathered, did the lightnings 
around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorching glare. 
Nor was their horrible beauty confined to the usual hues 
of fire; no rainbow ever rivalled their varying and prodigal 
dyes. Now brightly blue as the most azure depth of a 
southern sky — now of a livid and snake-like green, darting 

• The skeletons of more than one sentry were found at their posts, t Pliny 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


367 

restlessly to and fro as the folds of an enormous serpent — nov» 
of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the 
<^olumns of smoke, far and wide, and lighting up the whole city 
from arch to arch — then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, 
like the ghost of their own life I 

In the pauses of the showers, you heard the rumbling of 
the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the tortured sea ; 
or, lower still, and audible b^ut to the watch of intensest fear, 
the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through 
the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the cloud ap- 
peared to break from its solid mass, and, by the lightning, to 
assume quaint and vast mimicries of human or of monster 
shapes, striding across the gloom, hurtling one upon the other, 
and vanishing swiftly into the turbulent abyss of shade ; so that, 
to the eyes and fancies of the affrighted wanderers, the unsub- 
stantial vapors were as the bodily forms of gigantic foes — the 
agents of terror and of death.* 

The ashes in many places were already knee-deep ; and the 
boiling showers which came from the steaming breath of the 
volcano forced their way into the houses, bearing with them a 
strong and suffocating vapor. In some places, immense frag- 
ments of rock, hurled upon the house roofs, bore down along 
the streets masses of confused ruin, which yet more and more, 
with every hour, obstructed the way ; and as the day advanced, 
the motion of the earth was more sensibly felt — the footing 
seemed to slide and creep — nor could chariot or litter be kept 
steady, even on the most level ground. 

Sometimes the huger stones, striking against each other as 
they fell, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of 
fire, which caught whatever was combustible within their reach ; 
and along the plains beyond the city the darkness was now ter- 
ribly relieved ; for several houses, and even vineyards, had 
been set on flames ; and at various intervals, the fires rose 
sullenly and fiercely against the solid gloom. To add to this 
partial relief of the darkness, the citizens had, here and there, 
in the more public places, such as the porticos of temples and 
the entrances to the forum, endeavored to place rows of torches 
but these rarely continued long ; the showers and the winds ex- 
tinguished them, and the sudden darkness into which their fit- 
ful light was converted had something in it doubly terrible and 
doubly impressive on the impotence of human hopes, the lesson 
of despair. 

Frequently, by the momentary light of these torches, pa^ 


* Dion Cas^ua 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


368 

ties of fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying towards 
the sea, others flying from the sea back to the land ; for the 
ocean had retreated rapidly from the shore — an utter darkness 
lay over it, and, upon its groaning and tossing waves, the storm 
of cinders and rocks fell without the protection which the 
streets and roofs afforded to the land. Wild — haggard — 
ghastly with supernatural fears, these groups encountered each 
other, but without the leisure to speal^ to consult, to advise; 
for the showers fell now frequently, though not continuously, 
extinguishing the lights, which showed to each band the death- 
like faces of the other, and hurrying all to seek refuge beneath 
the nearest shelter. The whole elements of civilization were 
broken up. Ever and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw 
the thief hastening by the most solemn authorities of the law, 
laden with, and fearfully chuckling over, the produce of his 
sudden gains. If, in the darkness, wife was separated from 
husband, or parent from child, vain was the hope of reunion. 
Each hurried blindly and confusedly on. Nothing in all the 
various and complicated machinery of social life was left save 
the primal law of self-preservation 1 

Through this awful scene did the Athenian wade his way, 
accompanied by lone and the blind girl. Suddenly, a rush ot 
hundreds, in their path to the sea, swept by them. Nydia 
was torn from the side of Glaucus, who, with lone, was borne 
rapidly onward ; and when the crowd (whose forms they saw 
not, so thick was the gloom) were gone, Nydia was still sepa- 
rated from their side. Glaucus shouted her name. No answer 
came. They retraced their steps — in vain : they could not 
discover her — it was evident she had been swept along in some 
opposite direction by the human current. Their friend, their 
preserver, was lost! And hitherto Nydia had been their 
guide. Her blindness rendered the scene familiar to her alone. 
Accustomed, through a perpetual night, to thread the wind- 
ings of the city, she had led them unerringly towards the sea- 
shore, by which they had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, 
which way could they wend ? all was rayless to them — a maze 
without a clue. Wearied, despondent, bewildered, they, how- 
ever, passed along, the ashes falling upon their heads, the 
fragmentary stones dashing up in sparkles before their feet. 

“ Alas ! alas ! ” murmured lone, “ I can go no farther ; 
my steps sink among the scorching cinders. Fly, dearest I— 
beloved, fly ! and leave me to my fate ! ” 

“Hush, my betrothed I my bride! Death with thee is 
sweeter than life without thee ! Yet, whither — oh ! whither, 
tan we direct ourselves through the gloom ? Already, it seems 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEII. 36^ 

that we have made but a circle, and are in the very spot which 
we quitted an hour ago.’^ 

“ O gods 1 yon rock — see, it hath riven the roof before us ! 
it is death to move through the streets ! ” 

“ Blessed lightning I See, lone — see ! the portico of the 
Temple of Fortune is before us. Let us creep beneath it ; it 
wiU protect us from the showers.” 

He caught his beloved in his arms, and with difficulty and 
labor gained the temple. He bore her to the remoter and 
more sheltered part of the portico, and leaned over her, that 
he might shield her, with his own form, from the lighoiing 
and the showers I The beauty and the unselfishness of love 
could hallow even that dismal time ! 

Who is there ? ” said the trembling and hollow voice of 
one who had preceded them in their place of refuge. “ Yet, 
what matters ? — the crush of the ruined world forbids to us 
friends or foes.” 

lone turned at the sound of the voice, and with a faint 
shriek, cowered again beneath the arms of Glaucus : and he, 
looking in the direction of the voice, beheld the cause of her 
alarm. Through the darkness glared forth tvo burning eyes 
— the lightning flashed and lingered athwart the temple — and 
Glaucus, with a shudder, perceived the lion to which he had 
been doomed couched beneath the pillars ; — and, close beside 
it, unwitting of the vicinity, lay the giant form of him who 
had accosted them — the wounded gladiator, Niger. 

That lightning had revealed to each other the form of beast 
and man ; yet the instinct of both was quelled. Nay, the lion 
crept near and nearer to the gladiator as for companionship 
and the gladiator did not recede or tremble. The revolution 
of Nature had dissolved her lighter terrors as well as her 
wonted ties. 

While they were thus terribly protected, a group of men 
and women, bearing torches, passed by the temple. They 
were of the congregation of the Nazarenes ; and a sublime and 
unearthly emotion had not, indeed, quelled their awe, but it 
had robbed awe of fear. They had long believed, according 
to the error of the early Christians, that the Last Day was at 
hand ; they imagined now that the Day had come. 

“ Woe ! woe ! ” cried, in a shrill and piercing voice, the 
elder at their head. Behold ! the Lord descendeth to judg- 
ment ! He maketh fire come down from heaven in the sight of 
men ! Woe ! woe ! ye strong and mighty ! Woe to ye of the 
fasces and the purple ! Woe to the idolater and the worshipper 
of the beast ! Woe to ye who pour forth the of saints, 

24 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 


370 

and gloa . over the death-pangs of the sons of God ! Woe to tlm 
hanot ot the sea ! — woe ! woe ! ” 

And with a loud and deep chorus, the troop chanted forth 
along the wild horrors of the air, — “ Woe to the harlot of the 
sea ! — woe ! woe ! 

The Nazarenes paced slowly on, their torches still flickering 
in the storm, their voices still raised in menace and solemn 
warning, t’\\ lost amid the windings in the streets, the darkness 
cf the atmosphere and the silence of death again fell over the 
scene. 

There was one of the frequent pauses in the showers, and 
Glaucus encouraged lone once more to proceed. Just as they 
stood, hesitating, on the last step of the portico, an old man, 
with a bag in his right hand and leaning upon a youth, tottered 
by. The youth bore a torch. Glaucus recognized the two as 
father and son — miser and prodigal. 

“ Father,” said the youth, “ if you cannot move more swiftly, 
I must leave you, or we both perish ! ” 

“ Fly, boy, then, and leave thy sire I ” 

‘‘But I cannot fly to starve; give me thy bag of gold I* 
And the youth snatched at it. 

“ Wretch ! wouldst thou rob thy father ? ” 

“Ay ! who can tell the tale in this hour ? Miser, perish I ” 
The boy struck the old man to the ground, plucked the bag 
from his relaxing hand and fled onward with a shrill yell. 

“Ye gods!” cried Glaucus, “are ye blind, then, even in 
the dark .? Such crimes may well confound the guiltless with 
the guilty in one common ruin. lone, on 1 — on I ” 


CHAPTER VIIL 

Arbaces encounters Glaucus and lone. 

Advancing, as men grope for escape in a dungeon, lone 
and her lover continued their uncertain way. At the moments 
when the volcanic lightnings lingered over the streets, they 
were enabled, by that awful light, to steer and guide their pro- 
gress : yet, little did the view it presented to them cheer or 
encourage thCir path. In parts, where the ashes lay dry and 
uncommixed with the boiling torrents, cast upwards from the 
mountain at capricious intervals, the surface of the earth 
presented a leprous and ghastly white. In other places, cindeJ 
and rock lay matted in Maps, from beneath which emerg^ 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII, 


371 


the half-hid limbs of some crushed and mangled fugitive. 
The groans of the dying were broken by wild shrieks of 
women’s terror — now near, now distant — which, when heard 
in the utter darkness, were rendered doubly appalling by the 
crushing sense of helplessness and the uncertainty of the perils 
around ; and clear and distinct through all were the mighty 
and various noises from the Fatal Mountain ; its rushing winds ; 
its whirling torrents ; and, from time to time, the burst and roar 
of some more fiery and fierce explosion. And ever as the 
winds swept howling along the street, they bore sharp streams 
of burning dust, and such sickening and poisonous vapors, as 
took away, for the instant, breath and consciousness, followed 
by a rapid revulsion of the arrested blood, and a tingling sen- 
sation of agony trembling through every nerve and fibre of the 
frame. 

“ Oh, Glaucus 1 my beloved I my own ! — take me to thy 
arms ! One embrace ! let me feel thy arms around me — and in 
that embrace let me die — I can no more I ” 

“ For my sake — for my life — courage, yet, sweet lone^ — my 
life is linked with thine ; and see — torches — this way ! Lo I 
how they brave the wind ! Ha ! they live through the storm- 
doubtless, fugitives to the sea ! — we will join them.’* 

As if to aid and reanimate the lovers, the winds and showers 
came to a sudden pause ; the atmosphere was profoundly still 
— the mountain seemed at rest, gathering, perhaps, fresh fury 
for its next burst : the torch-bearers moved quickly on. “ We 
are nearing the sea,” said, in a calm voice, the person at their 
head. ** Liberty and wealth to each slave who survives this 
day. Courage ! — I tell you that the gods themselves have as- 
sured me of deliverance — On ! ” 

Redly and steadily the torches flashed full on the eyes of 
Glaucus and lone, who lay trembling and exhausted on his 
bosom. Several slaves were bearing, by the light, panniers and 
coffers, heavily laden ; in front of them, — a drawn sword in his 
hand, towered the lofty form of Arbaces. 

“ By my fathers ! ” cried the Egyptian, “ Fate smiles upon 
me even through these horrors, and, amidst the dreadest as- 
pects of woe and death, bodes me happiness and love. Away 
Greek ! I claim my ward, lone I ” 

“ Traitor and murderer ! ” cried Glaucus, glaring upon his 
foe, “ Nemesis hath guided thee to my revenge !— a just sacrifice 
to the shades of Hades, that now seemed loosed on earth. Ap* 
proach — touch but the hand of lone, and thy weapon shall be 
as a reed — I will tear thee limb from limb ! ” 

Suddeniy, as he spoke, the place became lighted with ar 


THE LAST DA KS OF POMPEIL 


372 

intense and lurid glow. Bright and gigantic through the dark 
ness, which closed around it like the walls of hell, the mountain 
shone — a pile of fire ! Its summit seemed riven in two ; 01 
rather, above its surface there seemed to rise two monster 
shapes, each confronting each, as Demons coritending for a 
World. These were of one deep blood-red hue of fire, which 
lighted up the whole atmosphere far and wide ; but below ^ the 
nether part of the mountain was still dark and shrouded, save in 
three places, adown which flowed, serpentine and irregular,* 
rivers of the molten lava. Darkly red through the profound 
gloom of their banks, they flowed slowly on as towards the de- 
voted city. Over the broadest there seemed to spring a cragged 
and stupendous arch, from which, as from the jaws of hell, 
gushed the sources of the sudden Phlegethon. And through the 
stilled air was heard the rattling of the fragments of rock, hurt- 
ling one upon another as they were borne down the fiery cata- 
racts — darkening, for one instant, the spot where they fell, and 
suffused the next, in the burnished hues of the flood along which 
they floated ! 

The slaves shrieked aloud, and, cowering, hid their faces, 
the Egyptian himself stood transfixed to the spot, tlie glow light- 
ing up his commanding features and jewelled robes. High be- 
hind him rose a tall column that supported the bronze statue of 
Augustus ; and the imperial image seemed changed to a shape 
of fire ! 

With his left hand circled round the form of lone — with his 
right arm raised in menace, and grasping the stilus which was 
to have been his weapon in the arena, and which he still for- 
tunately bore about him, with his brow knit, his lips apart, the 
wrath and menace of human passions arrested as by a charm, 
upon his features, Glaucus fronted the Egyptian ! 

Arbaces turned his eyes from the mountain — they rested on 
the form of Glaucus I He paused a moment : “ Why,” he mut- 
tered, “ should I hesitate ? Did not the stars foretell the only 
crisis of imminent peril to which I was subjected ? — is not that 
peril past.?” 

“ The soul,” cried he aloud, “ can brave the wreck of worlds 
and the wrath of imaginary gods ! By that soul will I conquer 
to the last ! Advance, slaves ! — Athenian, resist me, and thy 
blood be on thine own head I Thus, then, I regain lone ! ” 

He advanced one step — it was his iast on earth! The 
ground shook beneath him with a convulsion that cast all around 
Upon its surface. A simultaneous crash resounded through the 


* See note [a) at the end of volur 


THE LAST DAYS CF POMPEIL 


373 

city, as down toppled many a roof and pillar ! — the lightning, 
as if caught by the metal, lingered an instant on the Imperial 
Statue — then shivered bronze and column ! Down fell the ruin, 
echoing along the street, and riving the solid pavement where it 
crashed I — The prophecy of the stars was fulfilled ! 

The sound — the shock, stunned the Athenian for several 
moments. When he recovered, the light still illumined the 
scene — the earth still slid and trembled beneath ! lone lay 
senseless on the ground ; but he saw her not yet — his eyes were 
fixed upon a ghastly face that seemed to emerge, without limbs 
or trunk, fiom the huge fragments of the shattered column — a 
face of unutterable pain, agony, and despair ! The eyes 
shut and opened rapidly, as if sense were not yet fled ; the lips 
quivered and grinned — then sudden stillness and darkness fell 
over the features, yet retaining that aspect of horror never to be 
forgotten ! 

So perished the wise Magician — the great Arbaces — the 
Hermes of the burning Belt — the last of the royalty of JB^ypt I 


CHAPTER IX. 

The despair of the lovers. — The condition of the multitude. 

Glaucus turned in gratitude but in awe, caught lone once 
more in his arms, and fled along the street, that was yet in- 
tensely luminous. But suddenly a duller shake fell over the 
air. Instinctively he turned to the mountain, and behold ! one 
of the two gigantic crests, into which the summit had been 
divided, rocked and wavered to and fro; and then, with a 
sound, the mightiness of which no language can describe, it 
fell from its burning base, and rushed, an avalanche of fire 
down the sides of the mountain ! At the same instant gushed 
forth a volume of blackest smoke — rolling on, over air, sea, 
and earth. 

Another — and another — and another shower of ashes, far 
more profuse than before, scattered fresh desolation along the 
streets. Darkness once more wrapped them as a veil; and 
Glaucus, his bold heart at last quelled and despairing, sank 
beneath the cover of an arch, and clasping lone to his heart 
a bride on that couch of ruin resigned himself to die. 

Meanwhile Nydia, when separated by the throng from 
Glaucus and lone, had in vain endeavored to regain them. In 
vain she raised that plaintive cry so peculiar to the blind ; it 


THE LAST DA VS OF POMPEIL 


374 

was lost amidst a thousand shrieks of more selfish terror: 
Again and again she returned to the spot where they had been 
divided to find her companions gone, to seize every fugitive 
— to inquire of Glaucus — to be dashed aside in the impatience 
of distraction. Who in that hour spared one thought to his 
neighbor ? Perhaps in scenes of universal horror, nothing is 
more horrid than the unnatural selfishness they engender. At 
length it occurred to Nydia, that as it had been resolved to 
seek the sea-shore for escape, her most probabh; chance of 
rejoining her companions would be to persevere in that direc- 
tion. Guiding her steps, then, by the staff which she always 
carried, she continued, with incredible dexterity, to avoid the 
masses of ruin that encumbered the path — to thread the streets 
— and unerringly (so blessed now was that accustomed dark- 
ness, so afflicting in ordinary life !) to take the nearest direc- 
tion to the sea-side. 

Poor girl her courage was beautiful to behold ! — and Fate 
seemed to favor one so helpless 1 The boiling torrents touched 
her not, save by the general rain which accompanied them ; 
the huge fragments of scoria shivered the pavement before 
and beside her, but spared that frail form : and when the 
lesser ashes fell over her, she shook them away with a slight 
tremor,* and dauntlessly resumed her course. 

Weak, exposed, yet fearless supported but by one wish, she 
was a very emblem of Psyche in her wanderings; of Hope 
walking through the Valley of the Shadow ; of the Soul itself— 
lone but undaunted, amidst the dangers and the snares of life 1 

Her path was, however, constantly impeded by the crowds 
that now groped amidst the gloom, now fled in the temporary 
glare of the lightnings across the scene ; and, at length a 
group of torch-bearers rushing full against her, she was thrown 
down with some violence. 

“ What I ” said the voice of one of the party, “ is this the 
brave blind girl ! By Bacchus, she must not be left here to 
die! Up! my Thessalian! So — so. Are you hurt? That’s 
well ! Come along with us we are for the shore ! ” 

“ O Sallust ! it is thy voice ! The gods be thanked ! Glau- 
cus ! Glaucus ! have you seen him ? ” 

Not I. He is doubtless out of the city by this time 
The gods who saved him from the lion will save him from the 
burning mountain.” 

As the kindly epicure thus encouraged Nydia, he drew her 

♦ “ A heavy shower of ashes rained upon us, which every now and then w« 
were obliged to shake off, otherwise we should have been crushed and buried 
in the heap.” — Pliny, 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIt, 


375 

along "With him towards the sea, heeding not her passionate 
entreaties that he would linger yet awhile to search for Glau- 
cus ; and still, in the accent of despair, she continued to shriek 
out that beloved name, which, amidst all the roar of the con* 
Tulsed elements, kept alive a music at her heart. 

The sudden illumination, the bursts of the floods of lava, 
and the earthquake, which we have already described, chanced 
when Sallust and his party had just gained the direct path 
leading from the city to the port ; and here they were arrested 
by an immense crowd, more than half the population of the 
city. They spread along the field without the walls, thousands 
upon thousands, uncertain whither to fly The sea had retired 
far from the shore, and they who had fled to it had been so 
terrified by the agitation and preternatural shrinking of the 
element, the gasping forms of the uncouth sea things which th€ 
waves had left upon the sand, and by the sound of the huge 
stones cast from the mountain into the deep, that they had 
returned again to the land, as presenting the less frightful 
aspect of the two. Thus the two streams of human beings, the 
one seaward, the other from the sea, had met together, feeling 
a sad comfort in numbers ; arrested in despair and doubt. 

“ The world is to be destroyed by fire,” said an old man 
in long loose robes, a philosopher of the Stoic school : “ Stoic 
and Epicurean wisdom have alike agreed in this prediction; 
and the hour is come ! ” 

“ Yea ; the hour is come 1 ” cried a loud voice, solemn but 
not fearful. 

Those around turned in dismay. The voice came from 
above them. It was the voice of Olinthus, who, surrounded 
by his Christian friends, stood upon an abrupt eminence on 
which the old Greek colonists had raised a temple to Apollo 
now time-worn and half in ruin. 

As he spoke, there came that sudden illumination which 
had heralded the death of Arbaces, and glowing over that 
mighty multitude, awed, crouching, breathless — never on earth 
had the faces of men seemed so haggard ! — never had meet- 
ing of mortal beings been so stamped with the horror and sub- 
limity of dread ! — never till the last trumpet sounds, shall such 
meeting be seen again ! And above those the form of Olinthus, 
with outstretched arms and prophet brow, girt with the living 
fires. And the crowd knew the face of him they had doomed 
to the fangs of the beast — t/ien their victim — now their wamer; 
and through the stillness again came his ominous voice — 

“ The hour is come ! ” 

The Christians repeated the cry. It was caught up— it was 


3 76 THE LA^T DA YS OF POMPEII, 

echoed from side to side — ^woman and man, childhood and 
old age repeated, not aloud, but in a smothered and dreary 
murmur — 

“ The hour is come ! ” 

At that moment, a wild yell burst through the air; — and, 
thinking only of escape, whither it knew not, the terrible tiger 
of the desert leaped amongst the throng, and hurried through 
its parted streams. And so came tlie earthquake, — and so 
darkness once more fell over the earth ! 

And now new fugitives arrived. Grasping the treasures 
no longer destined for their lord, the slaves of Arbaces joined 
the throng. One only of all their torches yet flickered on. 
It was borne by Sosia ; and its light falling on the face of 
Nydia, he recognized the Thessalian. 

“ What avails thy liberty now, blind girl ? said the slave. 

‘‘Who art thou ? canst thou tell me of Glauvus 

“ Ay ; I saw him but a few minutes since.’* 

“ Blessed be thy head 1 where ? ” 

Couched beneath the arch of the forum — dead or dying 
—gone to rejoin Arbaces, who is no more ! ” 

Nydia uttered not a word, she slid from the side of Sallust; 
silently she glided through those behind her, and retraced 
her steps to the city. She gained the forum — the arch ; she 
stooped down — she felt around — she called on the name of 
Glaucus. 

A weak voice answered — “ Who calls on me ? It is the 
voice of the Shades ? Lo ! I am prepared ! ” 

“Arise ! follow me 1 Take my hand ! Glaucus, thou shalt 
be saved I ” 

In wonder and sudden hope, Glaucus arose — “ Nydia still ? 
Ah I thou, then, art safe ! ” 

The tender joy of his voice pierced the heart of the poor 
Thessalian, and she blessed him for his thought of her. 

Half leading, half carrying lone, Glaucus followed his 
guide. With admirable discretion, she avoided the path which 
led to the crowd she had just quitted, and, by another route, 
sought the shore . 

After many pauses and incredible perseverance, they gained 
the sea, and joined a group, who, bolder than the rest, re 
solved to hazard any peril rather than continue in such a scene. 
In darkness they put forth to sea; but, as they cleared the 
land and caught new aspects of the mountain, its channels of 
molten fire threw a partial redness over the waves. 

Utterly exhausted and worn out, lone slept on the breast 
of Glaucus, and Nydia lay at his feet Meanwhile the showers 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII 


37 ? 

of dust and ashes, still borne aloft, fell into the waves, and 
icattered their snows over the deck. Far and wide, borne by 
the winds, those showers descended upon the remotest climes, 
Itartling even the swarthy African; and whirled along the 
intique soil of Syria and Egypt.* 


CHAPTER X. 

The next moming.i — ^The fate of Nydia. 

And meekly, softly, beautifully, dawned at last the light 
over the trembling deep ! — the winds were sinking into rest — 
the foam died from the glowing azure of that delicious sea. 
Ajround the east, thin mists caught gradually the rosy hues 
that heralded the morning; Light was about to resume her 
reign. Yet, still, dark and massive in the distance, lay the 
broken fragments of the destroying cloud, from which red 
streaks, burning dimlier and more dim, betrayed the yet rolling 
fires of the mountain of the “ Scorched Fields The white 
walls and gleaming columns that had adorned the lovely 
coasts were no more. Sullen and dull were the shores so 
lately crested by the cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii. The 
darlings of the Deep were snatched from her embrace ! 
Century after century shall the mighty Mother stretch forth 
her azure arms, and know them not — moaning round the 
sepulchres of the Lost ! 

There was no shout from the mariners at the dawning light 
— it had come too gradually, and they were too wearied for 
such sudden bursts of joy — but there was a low deep murmur 
of thankfulness amidst those watchers of the long night. They 
looked at each other and smiled — they took heart — they felt 
once more that there was a world around, and a God above 
them ! And in the feeling that the worst was passed, the over- 
wearied ones turned round, and fell placidly to sleep. In the 
growing light of the skies there came the silence which night 
had wanted ; and the bark drifted calmly onward to its port. 
A few other vessels, bearing similar fugitives, might be seen 
in the expanse, apparently motionless, yet gliding also on. 
There was a sense of security, or companionship, and of hope, 
in the sight of their slender masts and white sails. What be- 
loved friends, lost and missed in the gloom, might they not 
bear to safety and to shelter ! 

* Dion Cassius. 


j 78 the last da YS of POMPEII. 

In the silence of the general sleep, Nydia rose gently. Sh* 
bent oyer the face of Glaucus — she inhaled the deep breath of 
his heavy slumber, — timidly and sadly she kissed his brow-— 
his lips; she felt for his hand — it was locked in that of lone; 
she sighed deeply, and her face darkened. Again she kissed 
his brow, and with her hair wiped from it the damps of night 
** May the gods bless you, Athenian ! ” she murmured : “ may 
you be happy with your beloved one! — may you sometimes 
remember Nydia ! Alas ! she is of no further use on earth ! ” 

With these words, she turned away. Slowly she crept along 
by the fv f i, or platforms, to the farther side of the vessel, and, 
pausing, bent low over the deep ; the cool spray dashed upward 
on her feverish brow. “ It is the kiss of deatn,” she said — “ it 
is welcome.” The balmy air played through her waving tresses 
— she put them from her face, and raised those eyes — so tender, 
though so sightless — to the sky, whose soft face she had never 
seen I 

“ No, no ! ” she said, half aloud, and in a musing and 
thoughtful tone, “ I cannot endure it ; this jealous, exacting 
love — it shatters my whole soul in madness ! I might harm 
him again — wretch that I was 1 I have saved him — twice saved 
him — happy, happy thought : — why not die happy 'i — it is the 
last glad thought I can ever know. Oh ! sacred Sea I I hear 
thy voice invitingly — it hath a freshening and joyous call. They 
say that in thy embrace is dishonor — that thy victims cross not 
the fatal Styx — be it so I — 1 would not meet him in the Shades, 
for I should meet him still with her / Rest — rest — rest ! — there 
is no other Elysium for a heart like mine 1 

A sailor, half dozing on the deck, heard a slight splash on 
the waters. Drowsily he looked up, and behind, as the vessel 
merrily bounded on, he fancied he saw something white above 
the waves ; but it vanished in an instant. He turned round 
again, and dreamed of his home and children. 

When the lovers awoke, their first thought was of each 
other — their next of Nydia I She was not to be found — none 
had seen her since the night. Every crevice of the vessel was 
searched — there was no trace of her. Mysterious from first to 
last, the blind Thessalian had vanished forever from the living 
world I They guessed her fate in silence : and Glaucus and 
lone, while they drew nearer to each other (feeling each other 
the world itself) forgot their deliverance, and wept as for a 
departed sister. 


THE LAST DA KS* OP POMPEU, 


m 


CHAPTER THE LAST 

Wherein all things cease. 


l^ter from Glaucus to Sallust^ ten years after the destruction 4 / 

Pompeii. 


“ Athens, 


“ Glaucus to his beloved Sallust — greeting and health ! — 
You request me to visit you at Rome — no, Sallust, come rather 
to me at Athens ! — I have forsworn the Imperial City, its 
mighty tumult and hollow joys. In my own land henceforth I 
dwell forever. The ghost of our departed greatness is dearer 
to me than the gaudy life of your loud prosperity. There is a 
charm to me which no other spot can supply, m the porticos 
hallowed still by holy and venerable shades. In the olive- 
groves of Ilyssus I still hear the voice of poetry — on the 
heights of Phyle, the clouds of twilight seem yet the shrouds 
of departed freedom — the heralds — the heralds — of the morrow 
that shall cornel You smile at my enthusiasm. Sallust! — 
better be hopeful in chains than resigned to their glitter. You 
tell me you are sure that I cannot enjoy life in these melan- 
choly haunts of a fallen majesty. You dwell with rapture on 
the Roman splendors, and the luxuries of the imperial court 
My Sallust — ‘ non sum qualis eram ' — I am not what I was 1 The 
events of my life have sobered the bounding blood of my youth. 
My health has never quite recovered its wonted elasticity ere 
it felt the pangs of disease, and languished in the damps of a 
criminal’s dungeon. My mind has never shaken off the dark 
shadow of the Last Day of Pompeii — the horror and the deso- 
lation of that awful ruin ! — Our beloved, our remembered 
Nydia ! I have reared a tomb to her shade, and I see it every 
day from the window of my study. It keeps alive in me a tender 
recollection — a not unpleasing sadness — which are but a fitting 
homage to her fidelity, and the mysteriousness of her early 
death. lone gathers the flowers, but my own hand wreathes 
them daily around the tomb. She was worthy of a tomb u 
Athens I 


THE LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 


580 

“ You speak of the growing sect of the Christians in Rome 
Sallust, to you I may confide my secret ; I have pondered 
much over that faith — I have adopted it. After the destruc- 
tion of Pompeii, I met once more with Olinthus — saved, alas I 
only for a day, and falling afterwards a martyr to the indom- 
itable energy of his zeal. In my preservation from the lion 
and the earthquake he taught me to behold the hand of the 
unknown God ! I listened — believed — adored ! My own, my 
more than ever beloved lone, has also embraced the creed ! — 
a creed, Sallust, which, shedding light over this world, gathers 
its concentrated glory, like a sunset, over the next ! We know 
that we are united in the soul, as in the flesh, forever and for- 
ever ! Ages may roll on, our very dust be dissolved, the earth 
shrivelled like a scroll; but round and round the circle of 
eternity rolls the wheel of life — imperishable — unceasing ! And 
as the earth from the sun, so immortality drinks happiness 
from virtue which is the smile upon the face of God ! Visit 
me, then, Sallust ; bring with you the learned scrolls of Epicu- 
rus, Pythagoras, Diogenes ; arm yourself for defeat ; and let 
us, amidst the groves of Academus, dispute, under a surer 
guide than any granted to our fathers, on the mighty problem 
of the true ends of life and the nature of the soul. 

“lone — at that name my heart yet beats! — lone is by my 
side as I write : I lift my eyes, and meet her smile. The sun- 
light quivers over Hymettus : and along my garden I hear the 
hum of the summer bees. Am I happy, ask you ? Oh what 
can Rome give me equal to what I possess at Athens ? Here, 
everything awakens the soul and inspires the affection — the 
trees, the waters, the hills, the skies, are those of Athens ! — 
fair, though mourning — mother of the Poetry and the Wisdom 
of the World. In my hall I see the marble faces of my ances- 
tors. In the Ceramicus, I survey their tombs ! In the streets, 
I behold the hand of Phidias and the — soul of Pericles. Har- 
modius, Aristogiton — they are everywhere — but in our hearts ! 
in mim^ at least, they shall not perish ! If anything can make 
me forget that I am an Athenian and not free, it is partly the 
soothing — the love — watchful, vivid, sleepless — of lone: — a 
love that has taken a new sentiment in our new creed * — a love 
which none of our poets, beautiful though they be, had 
shadowed forth in description ; for mingled with religion, it 
partakes of religion ; it is blended with pure and unworldly 
thoughts ; it is that which we may hope to carry through eter- 
nity, and keep, therefore, white and unsullied, that we ma^ 


* See note (^) at the end of volume. 


THE LAST DA VS OF FOMPEIL 


38 * 

not blush to confess it to our God ! This is the true type oi 
the dark fable of our Grecian Eros and Psyche — it is, in truth, 
the soul asleep in the arms of love. And if this, our love, sup- 
port me partly against the fever of the desire for freedom, my 
religion supports me more ; for whenever I would grasp the 
sword and sound the shell, and rush to a new Marathon (but 
Marathon without victory), I feel my despair at the chilling 
thought of my country’s impotence — the crushing weight of 
the Roman yoke, comforted, at least, by the thought that 
earth is but the beginning of life — that the glory of a few 
years matters little in the vast space of eternity — that there is 
no perfect freedom till the chains of clay fall from the soul, 
and all space, all time, become its heritage and domain. Yet, 
Sallust, some mixture of the soft Greek blood still mingles with 
my faith. I can share not the zeal of those who see crime 
and eternal wrath in men who cannot believe as they. I shud- 
der not at the creed of others. I dare not ^urse them— I pray 
the Great Father to cowvert. This lukewarmness exposes me 
to some suspicion amongst the Christians : but I forgive it ; 
and, not offending openly the prejudices of the crowd, I am 
thus enabled to protect my brethren from the danger of the 
law, and the consequences of their own zeal. If moderation 
seems to me the natural creature of benevolence, it gives, also, 
the greatest scope to beneficence. 

“ Such, then O Sallust ! is my life — such my opinions. In 
this manner I greet existence and await death. And thoo, 
glad-hearted and kindly pupil of Epicurus, thou — But come 
hither and see what enjoyments, what hopes are ours — and 
not the splendor of imperial banquets, nor the shouts of the 
crowded circus, nor the noisy forum, nor the glittering the- 
atre, nor the luxuriant gardens, nor the voluptuous baths of 
Rome — shall seem to thee to constitute a life of more vivid 
and uninterrupted happiness than that which thou so unseason- 
ably pitiest as the career of Glaucus the Athenian ! — Farewell I ’* 

*>*##*♦# 

Nearly Se\^enteen Centuries had rolled away when the 
City of Pompeii was disinterred from its silent tomb,’* all vivid 
with undimmed hues; its walls fresh as if painted yesterday 
—not a hue faded on the rich mosaic of its floors — in its forum 
the half-finished columns as left by the workman’s hand — in its 
gardens the sacrificial tripod — in its halls the chest of treasure 
—in its baths the strigil — in its theatres the counter of ad 

• Destroyed a. d. 79; first disco^ed A D. 1750. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEII. 


S82 

mission — in its saloons the furniture and the lamp— -in its tri- 
clinia the fragments of the last feast — in its cubicula the 
perfumes and the rouge of faded beauty — and everywhere the 
bones and skeletons of those who once moved the springs of 
that minute yet gorgeous machine of luxury and of life ! * 

In the house of Diomed, in the subterranean vaults, twenty 
ikeletons (one of a babe) were discovered in one spot by the 
door, covered by a fine ashen dust, that had evidently been 
Wafted slowly through the apertures, until it had filled the 
whole space. There were jewels and coins, candelabra for 
unavailing light, and wine hardened in the amphorae for the 
prolongation of agonized life. The sand, consolidated by 
damps, had taken the forms of the skeletons as in a cast ; and 
the traveller may yet see the impression of a female neck and 
bosom of young and round proportions — the trace of the fated 
Julia! It seems to the inquirer as if the air had been gradu- 
ally changed into a sulphurous vapor; the inmates of the 
vaults had rushed to the door, to find it closed and blocked 
up by the scoria without, and in their attempts to force it, had 
been suffocated with the atmosphere. 

In the garden was found a skeleton with a key by its bony 
hand, and near it a bag of coins. This is believed to have 
been the master of the house — the unfortunate Diomed who 
had probably sought to escape by the garden and been de- 
stroyed either by the vapors or some fragment of stone. Be- 
side some silver vases lay another skeleton, probably of a slave. 

The houses of Sallust and of Pansa, the Temple of Isis, 
with the juggling concealments behind the statues — the lurk- 
ing place of its holy oracles, — are now bared to the gaze of the 
curious. In one of the chambers of that temple was found a 
huge skeleton with an axe beside it ; two walls had been pierced 
by the axe — the victim could penetrate no farther. In the 
midst of the city was found another skeleton, by the side of 
which was a heap of coins, and many of the mystic ornaments 
of the fane of Isis. Death had fallen upon him in his avarice 
and Calenus perished simultaneously with Burbo ! As the ex- 
cavators cleared on through the mass of ruin, they found the 
skeleton of a man literally severed in two by a prostrate col- 
umn; the skull was of so striking a conformation, so boldly 
marked in its intellectual, as well as its worse physical de- 
velopments, that it has excited the constant speculation of 
every itinerant believer in the theories of Spurzheim who has 
gazed upon that ruined palace of the mind. Still, after the 


• note (r) at the end of volume. 


THE LAST DA YS OF POMPEIL 383 

lapse of ages, the traveller may survey that airy hall within 
whose cunning galleries and elaborate chambers once thought, 
reasoned, dreamed, and sinned, the soul of Arbaces the Egyp* 
tian. 

Viewing the various witnesses of a social system which has 
passed from the world forever — a stranger, from that remote 
and barbarian Isle which the imperial Roman shivered when 
he named, paused amidst the delights of the soft Campania 
and composed this history • 





NOTES 


NOTES TO BOOK I. 

(a) P. 16. — “Flowers more alluring to the ancient Italians than to 
their descendants,” etc. 

The modem Italians, especially those of the more southern parts 
of Italy, have a peculiar horror of perfumes ; they consider them re- 
markably unwholesome; and the Roman or Neopolitan lady requests 
her visitors not to use them. What is very strange, the nostrils so 
susceptible of a perfume is wonderful obtuse to its reverse. You may 
literally call Rome, “Sentina Gentium ^’ — the sink of nations. 

{b) P. 33. — “The sixth banqueter, who was the umhra of Clodius.” 

A very curious and interesting treatise might be written on the 
parasites of Greece and Rome. In the former, they were more de- 
graded than in the latter country. The “Epistles” of Alciphron ex- 
press, in a lively manner, the insults which they underwent for the 
sake of a dinner; one man complains that fish-sauce was thrown into 
his eyes — that he was beat on the head, and given to eat stones 
smeared with honey; while a courtesan threw at him a bladder filled 
with blood, which burst on his face and covered him with the stream. 
The manner in which these parasites repaid the hospitality of their 
hosts was, like that of modern diners-out, by witty jokes and amusing 
stories; sometimes they indulged practical jdees on each other, “box- 
ing one another’s ears,” The magistrates at Athens appear to have 
looked very sternly upon these humble buffoons, and they complain 
of stripes and a prison with no philosophical resignation. In fact, the 
parasite seems at Athens to have answered the purpose of the fool of 
the middle ages; but he was far more worthless and perhaps more 
witty — the associate of courtesans, uniting the pimp with the buffoon. 
This is a character peculiar to Greece. The Latin comic writers make 
indeed prodigal use of the* parasite; yet he appears at Rome to have 
held a somewhat higher rank, and to have met with a somewhat 
milder treatment, than at Athens. Nor do the delineations of Terence, 
which, in portraying Athenian manners, probably soften down what- 
ever would have been exaggerated to a Roman audience, present so 
degraded or so abandoned a character as the parasites of Alciphron 
and Athenaeus. The more haughty and fastidious Romans often dis- 
dained indeed to admit such buffoons as companions, and hired (as we 
may note in Pliny’s “Epistles”) fools or mountebanks, to entertain 
their guests and supply the place of the Grecian parasite. When (be 
it observed) Clodius is styled parasite In the text, the reader must 
take the modem, not the ancient interpretation of the word. 

38s 


NOTES, 


386 

A very feeble, but very flattering reflex of the parasite was the 
umbra or shadow, who accompanied any invited guest, and who was 
sometimes a man of equal consequence, though usually a poor rela- 
tive, or an humble friend — in modern cant, “a toady.” Such is the 
umbra of our friend Clodius. 

(c) P. 35. — “The dice in summer, and I am aedilel” 

All games of chance were forbidden by law (“Vetita legibus alea,” — 
Horat. Od. xxiv. 1, 3), except “in Saturnalibus,” during the month of 
December : the aediles were charged with enforcing this law, which, 
like all laws against gaming, in all times, was wholly ineffectual. 

(J) P. 42. — “The small but graceful temple consecrated to Isis.” 

Sylla is said to have transported to Italy the worship of the Egyp- 
tian Isis.* It soon became “the rage,” and was peculiarly in vogue 
with the Roman ladies. Its priesthood were sworn to chastity, and, 
like all such brotherhoods, were noted for their licentiousness. Juvenal 
styles the priestesses by a name (Isiacae lenae) that denotes how con- 
venient they were to lovers, and under the mantle of night many an 
amorous intrigue was carried on in the purlieus of the sacred temples. 
A lady vowed for so many nights to watch by the shrine of Isis; — it 
was a sacrifice of continence toward her husband, to be bestowed on 
her lover ! While one passion of human nature was thus appealed to, 
another scarcely less strong was also pressed into the service of the 
goddess — namely. Credulity. The priests of Isis arrogated a knowl- 
edge of magic and of the future. Among women of all classes — and 
among many of the harder sex — the Egyptian sorcerers were con- 
sulted and revered as oracles. Voltaire, with much plausible ingenuity, 
endeavors to prove that the gypsies are a remnant of the ancient 
priests and priestesses of Isis, intermixed with those of the goddess of 
Syria. In the time of Apuleius these holy imposters had lost their 
dignity and importance ,* despised and poor, they wandered from place 
to place selling prophesies, and curing disorders ; and Voltaire 
shrewdly bids us remark that Apuleius has not forgot their peculiar 
skill in filching from out-houses and court-yards — afterwards they 
practised palmistry and singular dances (query the Bohemian dances?). 
“Such,” says the too-conclusive Frenchman, “such has been the end of 
the ancient religion of Isis and Osiris, whose very names still impress 
us with awe!” At the time in which my story is cast, the worship of 
Isis was, however, in the highest repute; and the wealthy devotees sent 
even to the Nile, that they might sprinkle its mysterious waters over 
the altars of the goddess. I have introduced the ibis in the sketch of 
the temple of Isis, although it has been supposed that that bird lan- 
guished and died when taken from Egypt. But from various reasons, 
too long now to enumerate, I incline to believe that the ibis was by no 
means unfrequent in the Italian temples of Isis, though it rarely lived 
long, and refused to breed in a foreign climate. 

* In the Campanian cities the trade with Alexandria was probably more 
effcacious than the piety of Sylla (no very popular example, perhaps) is 
establishing the worship of the favorite deity of Egypt. 


NOTES. 


3 ^ 


NOTES TO BOOK II. 

(a) P. 134. — “The marvels of Faustus are not comparable to those 
of Apollonius.” 

During the earlier ages of the Christian epoch, the heathen philos- 
ophy, especially of Pythagoras and of Plato, had become debased and 
adulterated, not only by the wildest mysticism, but the most chimerical 
dreams of magic. Pythagoras, indeed, scarcely merited a nobler des- 
tiny; for though he was an exceedingly clever man, he was a most 
pr(^igious mountebank, and was exactly formed to be the great father 
of a school of magicians. Pythagoras himself either cultivated magic 
or arrogated its attributes, and his followers told marvellous tales of 
his writing on the moon’s disc, and appearing in several places at once. 
His golden rules and his golden thigh were in especial veneration in 
Magna Grsecia, and out of his doctrines of occult numbers his fol- 
lowers extracted numbers of doctrines. The most remarkable of the 
later impostors who succeeded him was Apollonius of Tyana, referred 
to in the text. All sorts of prodigies accompanied the birth of this 
gentleman. Proteus, the Egyptian god, foretold to his mother, yet 
pregnant, that it was he himself (Proteus) who was about to reappear 
in the world through her agency. After this, Proteus might well be 
considered to possess the power of transformation! Apollonius knew 
the language of birds, read men’s thoughts in their bosoms, and walked 
about with a familiar spirit. He was a devil of a fellow with a devil, 
and induced a mob to stone a poor demon of venerable and mendicant 
appearance, who, after the lapidary operation changed into a huge dog. 
He raised the dead, passed a night with Achilles, and, when Domitian 
was murdered, he called out aloud (though at Ephesus at the moment), 
“Strike the tyrant!” The end of so honest and great a man was 
worthy his life. It would seem that he ascended into heaven. What 
less could be expected of one who had stoned the devil? Should any 
English writer meditate a new Faust, I recommend to him Apollonius. 

But the magicians of this sort were philosophers ( !) — excellent men 
and pious; there were others of a far darker and deadlier knowledge, 
the followers of the Goethic magic; in other words, the Black Art. 
Both of these, the Goethic and the Theurgic, seem to be of Egyptian 
origin ; and it is evident, at least, that their practitioners appeared to 
pride themselves on drawing their chief secrets from that ancient 
source ; and both are intimately connected with astrology. In attribut- 
ing to Arbaces the knowledge and the repute of magic, as well as that 
of the science of the stars, I am, therefore, perfectly in accordance 
with the spirit of his time, and the circumstances of his birth. He is 
a characteristic of that age. At one time, I proposed to have devel- 
oped and detailed more than I have done the pretensions of Arbaces 
to the mastery of his art, and to have initiated the reader into the vari- 
ous sorceries of the period. But as the character of the Egyptian grew 
upon me, I felt that it was necessary to be sparing of that machinery 
which, thanks to the march of knowledge, every one now may fancy 
he can detect. Such as he is, Arbaces is become too much of an intel- 
lectual creation to demand a frequent repetition of the coarser and 


338 


NOTES. 


more physical materials of terror. I suffered him, then, merely to 
demonstrate his capacities in the elementary and obvious secrets of his 
craft, and leave the subtler magic he possesses to rest in mystery and 
shadow. 

As to the Witch of Vesuvius — her spells and her philtres, her cavern 
and its appliances, however familiar to us of the North, are faithful 
also to her time and nation. A witch of a lighter character, and man- 
ners less ascetic, the learned reader will remember with delight in the 
“Golden Ass” of Apuleius ; and the reader who is not learned, is rec- 
ommended to the spirited translation of that enchanting romance by 
Taylor. 


NOTE TO BOOK III. 

(a) P. 149. — “The influence of the evil eye.” 

This superstition, to which I have more than once alluded through- 
out this work, still flourishes in Magna Graecia, with scarcely dimin- 
ished vigor. I remember conversing at Naples with a lady of the 
highest rank, and of intellect and information very uncommon amongst 
the noble Italians of either sex, when I suddenly observed her change 
color and make a rapid and singular motion with her finger. “My 
God, that man!” she whispered, tremblingly. 

“What man?” 

“See! the Count ! he has just entered!” 

“He ought to be much flattered to cause such emotion ; doubtless he 
has been one of the Signora's admirers ?” 

“Admirer! Heaven forbid! He has the evil eye! His look fell 
full upon me. Something dreadful will certainly happen.” 

“I see nothing remarkable in his eyes.” 

“So much the worse. The danger is greater for being disguised. 
He is a terrible man. The last time he looked upon my husband, it 
was at cards, and he lost half his income at a sitting ; his ill-luck was 
miraculous. The count met my little boy in the gardens, and the poor 
child broke his arm that evening. Oh! what shall I do? something 
dreadful will certainly happen — and, heavens ! he is admiring my cap !” 

“Does every one find the eyes of the count equally fatal, and his 
admiration equally exciting?” 

“Every one — ^he is universally dreaded; and, what is very strange, 
he is angry if he sees you avoid him !” 

“That is very strange indeed ! the wretch !” 

At Naples the superstition works well for the jewellers, — so many 
charms and talismans as they sell for the ominous fascination of the 
malecchio! In Pompeii, the talismans were equally numerous, but 
not always of so elegant a shape, nor of so decorous a character. But, 
generally speaking, a coral ornament was, as it now is, among the 
favorite averters of the evil influence. The Thebans about Pontus 
were supposed to have an hereditary claim to this charming attribute, 
and could even kill grown-up men with a glance. As for Africa, 
where the belief also still exists, certain families could not only destroy 
children, but wither up trees — they did this, not with curses but 


NOTES. 


3S9 

praises. The mdtus oculus was not always different from the eyes of 
other people. But persons, especially of the fairer sex, with double 
pupils to the organ, were above all to be shunned and dreaded. The 
Illyrians were said to possess this fatal deformity. , In all countries, 
even in the North, the eye has ever been held the chief seat of 
fascination; but nowadays, ladies with a single pupil manage the 
work of destruction pretty easily. So much do we improve upon our 
forefathers ! 


NOTE TO BOOK IV. 

(a) P. 331. 

‘'We care not for gods up above us, — , 

We know there’s no gods for this earth, boysl” 

The doctrines of Epicurus himself are pure and simple. Far from 
denying the existence of diviner powers, Velleius (the defender and 
explainer of his philosophy in Cicero’s dialogue on the nature of the 
gods) asserts “that Epicurus was the first who saw that there were 
gods, from the impressions which Nature herself makes on the minds 
of all men.” He imagined the belief of the Deity to be an innate 
antecedent notion (7cp6XT3tl^t<;) of the mind — a doctrine of which 
modern metaphysicians (certainly not Epicureans) have largely 
availed themselves ! He believed that worship was due to the divine 
powers from the veneration which felicity and excellence command, 
and not from any dread of their vengeance, or awe of their power : a 
sublime and fearless philosophy, suitable perhaps to half a dozen 
great and refined spirits, but which would present no check to the 
passion of the mass of mankind. According to him, the gods were far 
too agreeably employed, in contemplating their own happiness, to 
trouble their heads about the sorrows and the joys, the quarrels and 
the cares, the petty and transitory affairs, of man. For this earth 
they were unsympathizing abstractions ; 


“Wrapt up in majesty divine 
Can they regard on what we dine?” 

Cotta, who, in the dialogue referred to, attacks the philosophy of 
Epicurus with great pleasantry, and considerable, though not uniform, 
success, draws the evident and practical corollary from the theory that 
asserts the non-interference of the gods. “How,” says he, “can there 
be sanctity, if the gods regard not human affairs? — if the Diety show 
no /benevolence to man, let us dismiss him at once. Why should I 
entreat him to be propitious ? He cannot be propitious, — since, accord- 
ing to you, favor and benevolence are only the effects of imbecility.” 
Cotta, indeed, quotes from Posidonius {De Natura Deorum), to prove 
.that Epicurus did not really believe in the existence of a God; but 
that his concession of a being wholly nugatory was merely a precau- 
tion against accusations of atheism.^ “Epicurus could not be such a 
fool,” says Cotta, “as sincerely to believe that a Deity has the members 
of a man without the power to use them ; a thin pellucidity, regarding 
no one and doing nothing.” And, whether this be true or false ccmi- 


NOTES. 


390 

cerning Epicurus, it is certain that, to all effects and purposes, his 
later disciples were but refining atheists. The sentiments uttered in 
the song in the text are precisely those professed in sober prose by 
the graceful philosophers of the Garden, who, as they had wholly 
perverted the morals of Epicurus, which are at once pure and prac- 
tical, found it a much easier task to corrupt his metaphysics, which 
are equally dangerous and visionary. 


NOTES OF BOOK V. 

{a) P. 377. — “Rivers of the molten lava.” 

Various theories as to the exact mode by which Pompeii was de- 
stroyed have been invented by the ingenious; I have adopted that 
which is the most generally received, and which, upon inspecting the 
strata, appears the only one admissible by common sense; namely, a 
destruction by showers of ashes, and boiling water, mingled with 
frequent irruptions of large stones, and aided by partial convulsions 
of the earth. Herculaneum, on the contrary, appears to have received 
not only the showers of ashes, but also inundations from molten lava; 
and the streams referred to in the text must be considered as destined 
for that city rather than for Pompeii. The volcanic lightnings in- 
troduced in my description were evidently among the engines of ruin 
at Pompeii. Papyrus, and other of the most inflammable materials, 
are found in a burnt state. Some substances in metal are partially 
melted; and a bronze statue is completely shivered, as by lightning. 
Upon the whole (excepting only the inevitable poetic license of short- 
ening the time which the destruction occupied), I believe my descrip- 
tion of that awful event is very little assisted by invention, and will be 
found not the less accurate for its appearance in a Romance. 

(b) P. 386. — “A love that has taken a new sentiment in our new 
creed.” 

What we now term, and feel to be, sentiment in love, was very 
little known amongst the ancients, and at this day, is scarcely ackowl- 
edged out of Christendom. It is a feeling intimately connected with 
— not a belief, but a conviction, that the passion is of the soul, and, 
like the soul, immortal. Chateaubriand, in that work so full both of 
error and of truth, his essay on “The Genius of Christianity,” has 
referred to this sentiment with his usual eloquence. It makes, indeed, 
the great distinction between the amatory poetry of the modems 
and that of the ancients. And I have thought that I might, with 
some consonance of truth and nature, attribute the consciousness of 
this sentiment to Glaucus after his conversion to Christianity, though 
he is only able vaguely to guess at, rather than thoroughly to explain, 
its cause. 


NOTES, 


391' 

(c) P. 387. — ‘"And every where, the bones and skeletons of those 
who once moved the springs of that minute yet gorgeous machine of 
luxury and of life!” 

At present (1834) there have been about three hundred and fifty 
or four hundred skeletons discovered in Pompeii; but as a great part 
of the city is yet to be disinterred, we can scarcely calculate the num- 
ber of those who perished in the destruction. Still, however, we have 
every reason to conclude that they were very few in proportion to 
those who escaped. The ashes had been evidently cleared away from 
many of the houses, no doubt for the purpose of recovering whatever 
treasures had been left behind. The mansion of our friend Sallust 
is one of those thus revisited. The skeletons which, reanimated for 
a while, the reader has seen play their brief parts upon the stage, 
under the names of Burbo, Calenus, Diomed, Julia, and Arbaces, were 
found exactly as described in the text : — may they have been re- 
animated more successfully for the pleasure of the reader than they 
have been for the solace of the author, who has vainly endeavored, in 
the work which he now concludes, to beguile the most painful, gloomy 
and despondent period of a life, in the web of which has been woven 
less of white than the world may deem ! But like most other friends, 
the Imagination is capricious and forsakes us often at the moment in 
which we most need its aid. As we grow older, we begin to learn 
that, of the two, our most faithful and steadfast comforter is — 
Custom. But I should apologize for this sudden and unseasonable 
indulgence of a momentary weakness — it is hut for a moment. With 
returning health returns also that energy without which the soul were 
giyen us in vain, and which enables us calmly to face the evils of our 
being, and resolutely to fulfill its objects. There is but one philosophy 
(though there are a thousand schools), and its name is Fortitude; 


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